


Cymraeg's Short Fics

by cymraeg



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age 2, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:36:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 91
Words: 26,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymraeg/pseuds/cymraeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my collection of short fics, mostly from the LJ Dragon Age community Tuesday prompt fest; a few will be from the kinkmeme. Will contain any possible combinations of pairings (both hetero- and homosexual) and tones, including crack, angst, h/c, death, etc, but oddly, very little smut. Maybe just a little.</p><p>No DA:I related drabbles occur until chapter 89.</p><p>03/24/2015 - added 91<br/>02/03/2015 - added 88-90<br/>08/12/2013 - Added 80-87<br/>07/14/2013 - Added 24-79<br/>11/8/2011 - Added 10-22. And now 23.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first one was kind of an experimental thing. None of the others have this stream-of-consciousness style.

" _O Falon'Din Lethanavir,_ " she whispered, " _friend to the dead, guide my feet, calm my soul, lead me to my rest"_ but when she opened her eyes again the battle was over and Alistair was dead and it was Leliana and Wynne who led her down the stairs of the tower and Alistair was dead and it was Sten who forced a way for her through the cheering crowd and Alistair was dead and it was Eamon who shielded her from nobles and courtiers alike while she was healed of her wounds and allowed to rest and Alistair was dead.

The next day she attended Anora's coronation and Alistair was dead and she was named the Hero of Ferelden and everyone wanted to know what was next for her and she smiled graciously and Alistair was dead and she agreed that rebuilding the Wardens should be her primary concern and her comrades began to bid her farewell and Alistair was dead.

A few weeks later Alistair was dead and she left for Amaranthine and met a beautiful and brave young soldier who guided her to Vigil's Keep and Alistair was dead when she found the place overrun by strange darkspawn and over the next few months she forged a team of Wardens out of a collection of misfits and oddballs and Alistair was dead and she built friendships and saved Amaranthine and set the Wardens of Ferelden on the path to recovery and Alistair was dead.

Years passed and Alistair was dead and she traveled to Orlais and Antiva and Weisshaupt and the Free Marches, and the Chantry erupted into war with the mages and Alistair was dead and the darkspawn surged and dwindled and her name became as much myth as reality and Alistair was dead and she began to avoid the cities and towns where she might be known and Alistair was dead.

When she felt the calling stir in her blood Alistair was dead and she slipped into Orzammar in the night and it was King Bhelen who came to see her off and opened the door to the Deep Roads with his own hands and although Alistair was dead as she slipped through it and heard it shut behind her forever her prayer at last, at last, was answered.


	2. First, Do No Harm

_"First, do no harm," the instructor intoned. "Even with the use of magic at your disposal, given an existing problem, it may be better not to do something, or even to do nothing, than to risk causing more harm than good. This is the first precept of healing, magical or otherwise, and the most important lesson you will ever learn."_

Anders found himself muttering the phrase over and over as he sat on the crate, rocking back and forth slightly. The words jumbled together in his mouth but pulsed in his mind, even as the shattered shards of the Chantry continued to fall like some weird rain.

"What's that you're muttering?" asked Sarah Hawke, as she stepped up behind him. He roused himself slightly.

" _First do no harm,"_ he said, around the combination of guilt and - was it relief? that felt like it was choking him. Yes, it was relief - the deed was done, no more waiting or fearing or hoping. The only thing remaining was for Sarah to finish him. "The first precept of healing." He laughed harshly.

"I've never been much of a healer myself," said Sarah conversationally. "As far as precepts go, 'kill them all and let the Maker sort them out' has always worked out pretty well for me."

Anders wasn't sure what he'd expected; anger, certainly; hate, fear, but not these light, nearly casual remarks. He twisted around on the crate. Sarah wasn't even looking at him; she was staring off toward the Chantry's remains with a dreamy expression he'd never seen on her face before. Beyond her, the expressions of the others were more like he expected - anger and fear twisted their faces, and several of them glared at him as if he were a stranger or a mad dog. Perhaps he was.

He looked back at Sarah.

"Sarah, what -"

"Do you know what you've let loose tonight?" she interrupted.

"Freedom, I hope," he replied quietly.

She reached up to her face and wiped away a dark spot he hadn't noticed before. With horror, he realized it was blood, the lifeblood of some casualty of the explosion.

"This city is dying tonight, Anders," she said, rubbing the liquid between her fingers. A red mist puffed up from them and vanished. Anders shuddered. "Can you feel it? The Chantry is only the beginning."

She smiled at him, but her silvery eyes glittered with something he didn't want to name. Her next words were barely more than a whisper, but they haunted him the rest of his days.

"We're going to drown this city in blood."

With that she was gone, unlimbering her staff as she went, and Anders, as he always did, followed her.


	3. Go For The Eyes!

Hawke dashed a combination of blood and stinging sweat out of her eyes and dodged behind a pillar as the Arishok charged again.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been leading this dance, but she knew it promised to go on quite a bit longer. The Arishok had seemingly endless reserves of strength, but she had quickness and agility on her side, and a grim determination to outlast the Qunari and bring this entire farce to an end.

Still, it was taking every ounce of her concentration to escape the surprisingly quick blows and land some dagger strikes of her own. Even though the Arishok was already bleeding from a half-dozen wounds, none were serious, and he'd managed to nick Hawke's scalp with the edge of his axe and land a kick to her solar plexus which had nearly taken her down entirely. The screaming and shouting from the crowd of assorted nobles was definitely not helping.

Finally, a particularly shrill " _GO FOR THE EYES!!!_ " distracted her just long enough that the Arishok nearly took her head off, and Hawke decided enough was enough.

"Okay, time out. Time. OUT!" she bellowed, slamming her daggers back into their sheaths and striding to the middle of the room. Startled, the Arishok actually stopped his rush and stared at her. Hawke glared around at the nobles, who were taken aback by this turn of events. Up on the stairwell, Varric, Fenris and Isabela traded bemused glances.

"Who shouted 'go for the eyes'?" she demanded.

There was silence.

"Step forward _now_ before I start bashing heads!" she barked.

A sheepish looking noble edged forward, the others moving away from him. Hawke smiled at him sweetly.

"So you think I should go for the eyes, do you?" she asked pleasantly.

"It was...just a suggestion..."

"Oh, was it? How very helpful of you. Do you have any other suggestions?"

"Er...no?"

"'No'? No more at all? How about 'hamstring him! or 'kick him the junk'? Seems I've heard those as well."

"Uh...no. No, I didn't say that."

"Oh, I see," said Hawke, with an edge creeping into her voice. "Well tell me this, then. While you were back there in the crowd, coming up with your single, _ever_ -so-helpful suggestion, did it occur to you that the Arishok tops me by about four feet?"

"Ummm..."

"Did it also occur to you that this - " she waved around at the bodies of the Qunari honor guard and other evidence of violence " - just so happens to be my damned _job_?"

"Uhhh..."

"Yes or no?!" she snapped.

"Y-yes?"

"Oh, really? Well then, would you like to do my job _for_ me?"

"No!"

"Then get your ass back over there by the wall, keep your mouth shut and _let me handle this_!" she yelled suddenly. The noble shrank back through the crowd. Hawke treated the rest of them to a glare.

"And that goes for the rest of you, too!"

The crowd of nobles shuffled back to the edges of the room as fast as possible, now almost as scared of Hawke as they were of the Qunari.

Hawke gave her shoulders a quick shake to loosen them up, reached for her daggers and turned back to the Arishok.

"Alright, big guy," she grinned. "Let's finish this."


	4. We Go On Pretending

Merrill sat huddled among the broken remnants of the eluvian. Her legs had been nicked in several places but she didn't seem to notice the blood. Hawke did, as his boots crunched on the shards, and he lifted the elf from the floor and set her gently on her bed. One of Merrill's green scarves was strewn on the pillow, and he used the edge of it to gently dab at the wounds.

"Everything's gone, Hawke," she whispered brokenly, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Everything that ever meant anything to me...all gone. How do I go on from here?"

"The same way anyone does, sweetling," he replied.

"But how do you do that, when there's nothing left to live for?"

"We go on by pretending that there will be something again one day," he said softly, stroking her hair. "And we go on pretending until..."

"Until what?"

"Until it becomes true," he said, and held her close until, at least for a little while, her tears ceased.


	5. A Notch In The Handle

"At least it can't get any worse. Not today, anyway. It's pretty late..."

Aveline clapped her hands over her ears and stifled a groan. _Andraste's lice ridden crotch, Hawke!_ she thought furiously. There was nothing the man took seriously but at that moment, she was actually ashamed to know him.

She gave him the full force of her glare as he came down the steps, and for once, he had the grace to look like he knew he'd gone too far. It was the only thing that kept her from walking up and punching him in the face.

Well, that, and the soft weeping audible on the altar level.

"What in the name of the _void_ is the matter with you, Hawke?" she hissed at him. "Isn't it enough his son is dead, you need to rub salt in his wounds as well? You have all the human empathy of an empty suit of armor!"

"Aveline, when you stop finding the humor in everyday situations, you stop growing as a person."

Then she did slap him.

So furious she could no longer form words, she pointed at the stairs and gestured to him to sit. Rubbing his cheek, he did. Unable to stay still, Aveline paced back and forth in front of the huge statue, the cavernous sanctuary shrouded in gloom to one side, clenching and unclenching her fists. "You are an absolute ass with all the charm of a leprous mabari!"

"I am, I really am," said Hawke, feigning chagrin.

"As soon as relief arrives, I want you out of here," she gritted. "Until then I'm _only_ putting up with you because the Viscount cannot not be alone." Hawke gave her a mock bow from his step and started cleaning his daggers. When he had finished with that, he took out his old belt knife and begin digging a notch out of the handle with the tip of one dagger. There were many such notches. They formed a long spiral starting from the end of the handle and in the time Aveline had known Hawke, that spiral had extended about a third of the way down toward the blade. He carved them after every fight or battle, and the fact that he needed to enumerate his fallen enemies in such a fashion was one of the many things about Hawke that Aveline sincerely disliked. It seemed barbaric.

Hawke finished his notch and put away his dagger, twirling the knife in the long fingers of one hand while the forefinger of the other delicately traced the spiral from top to bottom, over and over.

She'd never discussed the notched knife with him, but she was still angry and decided she'd tell him what she thought of that, too.

"That one's for Petrice, then? You know, I saw you drop at least four or five more of that mob, why not add them too?"

"Huh?" said Hawke, startled, and she realized he'd been further gone in thought than she realized.

"This," she said, stepping close and brushing a finger over the newest notch. "Your victory token, for Petrice."

"This isn't for Petrice," he said softly. "It's for Saemus."

Aveline was taken aback. "For - I don't understand."

"They're not victory tokens," he said, "they're more like, I don't know..."

He traced the spiraling band of notches again. "My father gave me this knife on his deathbed. This first one is him...And this one is Carver." He hesitated a moment, glancing at her quickly and then at the knife again. "Wesley. Zara, that child who got sick in the hold on the passage over, remember her?" He continued down the spiral, each one a name; some were familiar to Aveline and others weren't. "Karl. Ketojan. Wilmod. Olivia. Pol. Ninette." A deep breath. "Bethany. Three Qunari delegates. Feynriel, in the Fade. An entire street in Lowtown. Alessa. My...my mother. And Seamus."

"Hawke," said Aveline, "you didn't kill those people..."

"That's not the point. The point is, I didn't save them," he said. There was no humor in his voice now, just a bleakness that melted Aveline's anger and made her sit next to him, place her hands over his.

"You can't carry a burden like that, Hawke," she said softly. "It's too much for any one man to bear."

"Oh, I'm a big boy," he said, already starting to shake off the blackness, deflect it with a smile and a wink, "That's not what worries me."

"Then what is?"

A hint of that darkness returned as he put the knife away.

"All the space that isn't filled yet."


	6. Minifill - H/C

The lamp was unlit, but Hawke pushed the clinic door open anyway. He already knew Anders wasn't at the estate, and if it turned out he wasn't in the clinic, Hawke didn't really want to think about where he might have gone.

But Anders was there, sitting at his spindly desk, with his head propped on his hands, staring at a cloth covered basket with an expression so devastated and forlorn that Hawke instantly forgot his anger over the false "potion" and just went to him.

"Anders?" he asked softly. Red-rimmed brown eyes turned up to him. "Oh, Hawke...you're back." Anders searched Hawke's face, as if seeking some vestige of the fury that had been painted on it the last time they spoke - well, argued. He apparently didn't find it, because he leaned his face against Hawke's abdomen and sighed.

"Yeah, we cleared out that nest of slavers and I - " _what?_ thought Hawke. _Cleared my head? Worked it out? Got over it?_ "got some leads on another job or two." Anders nodded against his stomach. "Anders..." he trailed off, unsure what to ask. _Why did you lie to me? What are you hiding? Why am I losing you?_ "What's the matter?"

"I couldn't save it, Hawke."

"Save what?" Hawke asked softly, but when Anders flicked the cloth off the basket, he understood. "...oh. I'm...I'm sorry, love."

"Two little girls brought it to me, they were so sure I could save it, but it had probably already been dead a while. It was so young to be away from its mother anyway. I tried, but...there wasn't really any point."

Hawke reached over Anders' shoulder and pulled the cloth back over the still form of the ginger kitten in the basket. "I'm sorry," he said again. Removing a gauntlet, he stroked Anders' hair gently. Anders shivered a little at his touch, and began to weep, an exhausted, broken sound. Hawke let him.

At last he pulled back and looked up again. "It's okay, Hawke," he said, the ghost of his usual smile trying to appear. "I guess you can't save them all, right?"

"No," Hawke whispered, gently wiping the tears from his lover's face. "You can't save them all."


	7. Up On The Roof

Hawke didn't know how long they'd been up here, but she did know that if she never had to leave, it would be too soon.

She and Isabela were laid out on a quilt, staring up into the night sky. The stars went on forever. And ever. And ever. Dreamily, she tried counting them. "One...two...three..." she said. "Soooo many."

"That's what I'm saying," said Isabela earnestly. "It's like...it's like the sky is the ocean, you see? And _we_ are the ships sailing through it."

Hawke almost wept with the beauty of the image. "That's sooo wonderful," she breathed. "You're so wise, Isabela."

"No, I'm not wise. YOU'RE wise."

"No, no," Hawke said, struggling to her elbows and staring intently into Isabela's face. "Nobody else appreciates how _wise_ you are. You just look at something and you can see the..." She couldn't think of a word.

"Biscuits," said Isabela.

Hawke nodded. "Exactly! It's like those biscuits -" She groped for a basket above their heads. "Did we eat all the biscuits?"

"I think we ate all the biscuits. We definitely ate all the grapes..." said Isabela.

"That's what I'm saying!" Hawke exclaimed with a sudden burst of inspiration. She flopped back down on the blanket and tried to gesture in a way that expressed the ineffable nature of biscuits, grapes, and the purpose of life. "It's like, on the one hand you have biscuits. And on the other hand, you have grapes. And they're completely different, but really the same!" she finished triumphantly.

Isabela clasped herself. "That is so true. So, so, so, so, so, so true."

They lay there for a while, basking in understanding.

"Want to roll another one?" said Isabela finally.

"Maker, yes!" said Hawke.

Isabela sat up and began fumbling with herbs and small squares of paper.

Hawke stared up at the stars. She was so at peace, she felt as if she could float right up into the sky and fly among them...

" _What in the name of Andraste's lice ridden crotch are you two doing?_ "

The stars were suddenly obscured by a face. A very angry face. A very angry and disapproving face.

"Hi, sweetie!" Hawke squealed.

  
Anders glared at her. She rolled over and looked up so at least he wasn't upside down anymore. Hawke grinned. Anders scowled.

"Is this what you've been doing all night? I didn't even think you were home until Sandal told me he had to keep bringing food up here every hour or two."

"Don't be angry, darling," Hawke wheedled. "We're just relaxing a little bit."

"If you two were any more relaxed I'd have to carry you downstairs in a bucket."

"Oh, don't be so grumpy, Anders," said Isabela, still fumbling with her materials. Anders turned his glare on her. "Was this your idea, Isabela?" he snapped.

"It's just a bit of fun!"

"Fun! This is - I don't even know what this is. If you need to relax, take a long bath, go to the Hanged Man for cards, but don't completely obliterate your brain."

"Obliterate!" giggled Hawke. _Obliterate_ was the funniest word she'd ever heard in her life. She flopped back onto the blanket, laughing uncontrollably.

"Just - just look at her! The Champion of Kirkwall! What if someone saw her this way!"

"She's a _human being_ , Anders," Isabela said. "Not just the Champion. Like, you're not just a mage, and I'm not just a pirate, we're all _human beings_. Even elves, and dwarves and Qunari are all _human beings,_ when you really _think_ about it. Even _Darkspawn._ "

Hawke, who had been nodding along at Isabela's continuing wisdom, found that a bit troubling. "Well, maybe not Darkspawn," she said.

Isabela cocked her head to the side.

"Yeah...okay, not Darkspawn."

Anders rubbed his temples. "You're not making any sense, you know. You just think you are."

"No, really, Anders!" said Hawke. "We were talking about the stars and ships earlier. You really don't understand until you've really...until you've really..."

"Exactly!" said Isabela triumphantly. Then, as she dropped the herbs and the paper, "Oh, bugger..."

"You don't understand how you sound," said Anders patiently. "Look, you're both being really boring right now. Is that what you want to be? Boring?"

"Boring!" giggled Hawke, dissolving into uncontrollable laughter again. "Boring boring boring boring boring - " _Boring_ was the funniest word she had ever heard in her life.

"Look, will you both please just - Isabela, what are you trying to do, anyway?"

"Trying to roll this up, but it's not _working_ ," said Isabela in bemused confusion.

"Oh for -" Anders scrubbed his face with his hands and then snatched the papers and herbs out of her hands. "Your leaf is too tight and your paper's too loose."*

" _Sandal!!_ " Hawke shouted into the sky. "Bring up some more biscuits!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Yeah, that's a direct lift - points to whomever catches it


	8. Open for Business

Later, the sun would be hot, beating down into the Gallows courtyard with merciless intensity and making its occupants feel a bit like slowing stewing pieces of meat in a pot. For now though, the air was still cool with dawn, and a few enterprising customers were taking advantage of the chill to shop early. There was already one standing in front of Hawke's table.

"This?" asked Fenris, holding up a simply carved ring and examining it closely.

"That is silverite, and will provide a slight advantage in resisting magic attacks which use cold. It is inexpensive but unlikely to provide much value, given the local climate," said Hawke.

Fenris nodded and put the ring down, gliding his fingers over a few others, then selected one with a greenish cast to the metal. "And this one?"

"That will add a small amount of nature damage to your attacks. It is, however, bulky, and unlikely to fit comfortably within a gauntlet."

Fenris exchanged the ring for a carved ivory bracelet which hinged open. He clasped it around his wrist, around the scarf which was in turn tied around his bracer. Hawke recognized the color of the scarf as red, but the knowledge didn't resonate. He remembered when it once had, and that the sight of the scarf had made his heart happy in a way that was no longer possible, but there was no poignancy in the memory. "What about this?" asked Fenris. Hawke answered serenely, "It will amplify healing magic. It would be useful to you if you are traveling with Anders."

Fenris' face tightened and he put the bracelet back. He ran his eyes over the table of trinkets. "Isn't today when you are supposed to get new stock?" he asked. "Everything is the same as yesterday."

"I do have new stock," said Hawke. "However, all of the items have been imported from the Tevinter Imperium as part of an exchange. Since you are always my first customer, I decided to wait until you had gone before displaying them. I did not believe you would like to see them. I expect them to sell quickly."

Fenris lowered his head and took a deep breath, then blindly picked up a ring at random and said "I will take this one."

"Forty five silver, please."

As Fenris handed over the coin, he held Hawke's hand briefly. Hawke did not resist. In a removed way, Hawke knew that these visits were not good for Fenris, but it was not his place to tell the elf so.

Fenris released Hawke's hand before any of the nearby Templars could suspect impropriety and stepped back with a small bow. "I will see you tomorrow morning," he said.

"I know," replied Hawke. As Fenris walked away, Hawke tugged his table a little farther under the overhang, even though the shadows were still long. Later, the sun would be hot.


	9. Casablanca Crossover

The rain and thunder couldn't drown out the sounds of the fire and distant noises of combat, but the _Siren's Call II_ stood proudly in the harbor ready to cast off. Anders was already on board, but Hawke and Fenris had stopped at the bottom of the gangplank.

The rain mixed with Hawke's tears as she clung to Fenris. "You're saying this only to make me go," she whispered brokenly.

Fenris stroked her damp hair from her eyes. "I'm saying it because it's true. Inside of us, we both know you belong with Anders. You're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that ship leaves the harbor and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life."

Hawke pulled back. "But what about us?"

Fenris smiled sadly. "We'll always have Kirkwall."

"When I said I would never leave you -" she continued desperately.

"And you never will. But I've got a job to do, too. Where I'm going, you can't follow. What I've got to do, you can't be any part of. Hawke, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that. Now, now..."

He gave her one last, lingering kiss. "Here's looking at you, kid."


	10. The Last Day

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.

Zevran found Alim huddled next to a large boulder at the far edge of the camp, staring east toward Denerim as if he could see the imperiled city already. He was wrapped in a thick cloak, but shivered violently nevertheless. His face, always fair, was all but drained of color.

" _Amore_ ," said Zevran softly. Alim didn't look up. Zevran sat next to him and pulled the other elf into his arms, trying to stroke away the trembling.

"I'm going to die today," said Alim in a stricken voice.

"You are not," said Zevran, and kissed Alim's temple.

"I am. I'm condemned. Condemned for being a Gray Warden. It has to be a Warden that kills the Archdemon, and it can't be Alistair because he's King, and it won't be Riordan because my luck doesn't work that way, and I'm going to die." He shuddered harder. Zevran gripped him more tightly.

"It's one thing knowing I _might_ die, that's different. Because I might live, too. But to walk straight up to the Archdemon and _let_ it kill me - I don't know if I can do it. I'm really a huge coward at heart, you know. And the worst part is I was offered -" he hesitated, as if looking for the right word - "an _opportunity,_ and I turned it down. And now I'm going to die and I don't want to!"

"You will not die," said Zevran, kissing Alim's ear and working his way down toward the side of the elf's throat. He gave the skin there a quick lick and watched it pebble in the cold.

"Aren't you listening?!" snapped Alim, trying to pull away. Zevran refused to let him. "I. Am. Going. To. Die."

"Alim," said Zevran, deliberately using the low tone he knew Alim loved to hear during their most intimate moments. "I know about your opportunity. When you turned it down, it was offered to another."

Alim stared at him in shock. Zevran, always the opportunist, kissed him on the lips.

"You mean...Alistair?"

"Yes," said Zevran, between kisses.

"What, _really_?" Alim asked incredulously, pushing ineffectually at Zevran's hands which had now started untying the laces of the mage's tunic and were sliding inside.

"He does not wish to die either," said Zevran.

"But he wouldn't have to. Because I - "

"No," said Zevran, grabbing Alim's chin and forcing the other elf to look him in the eyes. "You would not. And if you did, Alistair would not survive you by a minute. I made that _extremely_ clear to him last night, after I eavesdropped on your conversation with the witch."

"...oh," said Alim weakly, and this time when Zevran started kissing him, he returned every one with equal enthusiasm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was actually the line "The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting," but it was too long for the LJ subject line. So I made it the first line of the drabble and let it set the scene. It's actually the first line of "The Red Badge of Courage," which is a bit like hanging a string of pearls on a pig, but there you go. :P


	11. Magic Tricks

The trap was baited.

Danarius could feel it; after all the searching, today was the day his little wolf would return to him. Lingering in the shadows at the top of the stairs, he surveyed the tavern common room with a derisive sneer. Not a pretty place, to be sure; and when he left here he would burn every scrap of fabric he's worn in this midden heap, but quite serviceable nevertheless. Fenris would walk in, the trap would be sprung, and Fenris would be his again.

At his elbow, the hunchbacked dwarf shifted nervously. Danarius backhanded him almost without thinking and the creature scuttled away with a yelp. There would be no help for Fenris here. At the bar an aged hag was working on her third ale of the morning, totally oblivious to the rest of the room. A tired elven serving girl was sweeping the same patch of floor she'd been addressing for the last quarter hour; mostly just moving dirt around. A few tired looking mercenaries sat at one table, their armor and weapons cheap and worn. Behind the bar, a non-descript tender was half asleep. His own guards were scattered about the room, trying to look inconspicuous.

And at a table in the middle of the room sat the bait. Varania's eyes snapped to the door as it opened, and Danarius licked his lips and leaned forward.

Fenris entered cautiously, accompanied by a black-haired woman who hung back a little. The elf made straight for his long-lost sister, but before more than a few words passed between them, Danarius began to descend the stairs. His little wolf, at last...

"Oh, look. It's a trap," said the black-haired woman in a dryly amused tone.

Fenris straightened, turned to face his old master, and ... changed. The elven warrior's form shimmered and shifted to become a dark haired human in heavy armor, with the symbol of the Chantry on the breastplate. What didn't change was the greatsword he was reaching for.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened; then the attack began. The hag at the bar was suddenly a much younger and more beautiful woman who took down two guards with a pair of vicious looking daggers; the tender, now a redheaded woman in the armor of the city guard came leaping over the bar with a drawn sword. The elven sweeper raised her broom and he suddenly saw it was a mage's staff, from which she began firing bolts into the remaining guards. At the top of the stairs, the humpbacked dwarf was now straight-backed and armed with a vicious crossbow.

Danarious started to cast, but was suddenly hit by a buffeting wave of...something; it had originated from the dark-haired warrior and it was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He could feel his magic , but he couldn't reach it. In short order, the guards were dead.

The black-haired woman smiled.

"Magister Danarius," she said. "My name is Sarah Hawke. Welcome to Kirkwall."

"You -" he snarled. "Where - where is Fenris?! What is all this?!"

"I hope you'll forgive my little magic trick. But when we learned you were coming, we decided not to bother Fenris. Kirkwall does, after all, have ways of dealing with mages."

The three men who had appeared to be mercenaries approached, two of them grabbing his arms. They were now dressed in the same Chantry-emblazoned armor.

"I am not a _mage_! I am a magister of the Tevinter Imperium!"

"You're not in the Tevinter Imperium," said Hawke with a pleasant smile. "And since you don't have any standing in this city, or any friends in convenient places...that makes you an apostate. A very dangerous apostate."

" _And you're a maleficar -_ " he tried to say; there could be no other explanation for the type of illusion she had created. But an armored forearm had now closed over his throat from behind, and he couldn't get the words out.

She turned away. "All yours, Ser Carver," she said over her shoulder. She left the tavern, followed by the other three women (the guardswoman hustling Varania along), and Danarius was left in the hands of the four Templars.

One of them was holding something. Some kind of iron, a sun-symbol like the ones on their armor, glowing with lyrium instead of heat.

The trap closed.


	12. Hope and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoileriffic for "Mark of the Assassin"!

Hawke's teeth were grinding again. It was giving him a headache.

No, that wasn't true. The redheaded elf with the desperate hope in her eyes was giving him a headache.

She'd lied. She'd used him. She'd used all of them for some private purpose that even now she refused to fully explain, and for what? "Because it's right." He'd heard that before, usually from someone wanting him to commit a wrong on their behalf.

She was waiting, in front of the tunnel that would take them back to the mountainside and eventually Chateau Haine. She wouldn't ask him anymore, he could tell, but the hope was still there on her face as she waited for him to decide.

Turning, he looked at the others. Fenris and Bethany, carefully just out of "eavesdropping" distance, were conversing in low tones with each other. Barf was sitting in front of them, scratching an ear with one hind paw and enjoying the respite. Behind them was the other tunnel, the one that would take them out of here.

Tallis' hope on one hand, and on the other...the only three things Hawke truly loved in all the world. They were his family, his life, and he would not put them in danger any longer for the sake of lies and half-truths and someone else's fight. Determined, he headed back toward them.

"Let's go," he said gruffly, shouldering his pack. Fenris and Bethany traded a glance, then headed out.

Toward Tallis.

"Wait, not that way!" exclaimed Hawke. Even the dog was bounding after them now. "I meant we're leaving!"

"No, we're not," called Bethany.

"We're not helping her!"

"Of course we are," said Fenris, without bothering to stop. "It's what we do."


	13. Darkly Dreaming

In the daytime her thoughts and words are clear and earnest. When she tells Anders she understands that spirits are dangerous, she is truthful; when she insists to Hawke that she has her blood magic under control, she is honest. In the daytime, in the sunlight, it's easy.

But at night, when the dreams come over her and she slips into that place which isn't the Fade, she hears a seductive music and feels the pull of something strong. She wakes from these dreams with relief but also with a sense of loss, and sometimes, if the sun hasn't quite finished rising, she wonders if one night she will simply slip into them and not return.

They are dark, her dreams; but they are lovely.


	14. I Was Blown Here By The Winds Of Chance

"I was blown here by the winds of chance," the young sailor said in a faraway tone. "By the vagaries of fate. In the morning I may rise as a king, and in the evening find my sleep as a beggar. Wherever the roads of the sea lead me, that is my path; and wherever the sun finds me, that is my home."

"So," said Isabela, signaling Corff for another round with one long finger, "you got drunk and when you woke up your ship had hauled anchor and gone?"

"Pretty much," admitted the sailor, taking a long pull.


	15. Gadgets and Gizmos

The... _item_ was so covered in gadgets and gizmos, gewgaws and bric-a-brac, that it was nearly impossible to get a sense of what it was actually supposed to be. Sarah leaned back against the wall, her eyes trying their best (but failing) to make some kind of logical sense out of the visual cacophony on Isabela's head.

"Isn't it _fabulous_?" Isabela preened. "I found the most amazing hat shop in Lowtown!"


	16. The Resemblance is Startling

"That's _it_!? What about sex?!"

Anders smirked to himself at the dismay in Isabela's voice; Hawke just grinned and went on searching the corpses for loose change. The Crow, Zevran, leered cheerfully at Isabela as he responded.

"Alas, my lovely pirate, your charms remain as bountiful as ever, but my heart belongs to only one."

"Are you _sure_ you're actually Zevran? I mean, the resemblance is remarkable, but..." Isabela said dryly.

"It's a difficult reputation to live up to," the Crow admitted. "But being faithful to my Warden is easier than you might suppose."

"Your Warden? It's been seven years, Zev," said Isabela, with a note of startlement in her voice.

"It's been but a moment, my dear," said Zevran softly, and then he was gone, leaving Anders feeling a bit like a whirlwind had passed through his life and then as suddenly vanished.

Isabela stood staring after the elf, an unusually pensive expression on her face.

"Is it _really_ so hard to believe that one person could be faithful to another?" Anders asked her.

"Not at all. It's just not for everyone, and I wouldn't have thought it of Zevran, that's all."

"Why not? We Wardens inspire great adulation, you know." Anders moved his head just in time to avoid a pebble that Hawke tossed at him. "Actually, I wonder if I know who his Warden is - there weren't that many of us seven years ago."

"I doubt it," Isabela said, finally turning away from the direction she'd been staring. "You joined the Wardens after the Blight ended, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, Zev's Warden is Theron Mahariel - the Dalish Warden Merrill always talks about."

" _Mahariel_?" asked Anders incredulously. " _The_ Warden? The Hero of Ferelden?"

"The very same."

"But he was killed by the Archdemon!"

"Yes. He was."

Isabela walked off then, heading toward the path that would take them back to Kirkwall. Anders and Hawke followed, and when Hawke slipped a hand into his, Anders squeezed it tightly, and thought about the strength of a love that could endure death.


	17. You Can Be A Big Pig Too

"It's Carver, isn't it? Carver Hawke?"

Carver's shoulders hunched a bit, involuntarily, as the templar fell into step beside him.

"It is," he said shortly, offering no further invitation to conversation. The templar apparently didn't need one.

"Knight-Captain's told me about you, says you're a good fighter," the templar said, with a hint of admiration. "Strong and quick, skilled with a greatsword."

Carver grunted noncommitally, and trudged onward. The market basket was heavy, and he wanted to get the week's supplies back to his mother before full dark fell. Dark was no time to be traversing the Lowtown slums, even if you _were_ a good fighter.

The templar was making him nervous, however. After spending his life hiding from templars, having one of them simply strike up a conversation with him was unnerving.

"Makes me wonder what you've got planned for the future," said the templar.

Carver was finally startled into speaking. "The future?" he asked, incredulously. "You want to talk to me about my future?"

"Why not? S'obvious you don't have a lot of prospects here, but there are ways for a fighter to make a living, even for a Ferelden refugee. Just...you're not doin' em. You're not in the guard, even though you have a friend there, which means they won't take you. You _were_ with the Red Iron, but now you're not. You're not on your brother's expedition - "

Carver whipped around to face the templar then, shifting his shoulders enough to loosen his greatsword so that he could draw it in an instant. The templar laughed, stepped back and held up his hands in conciliation. "Don't worry, don't worry, I know how it is! How d'you think I ended up a templar myself? Cap'n thinks you'd make a better templar than a criminal, that's all."

"Is this a _recruitment_?" Carver snapped, hardly believing his ears. "I guess the posters and slogans don't work so well then - 'join the biggest herd of pigs in Kirkwall, you can be a big pig too;' is that it?"

The templar smiled at him, or at least bared his teeth. "I'm just sayin...there's those that think you're a great candidate for the templars. You could accomplish something, be part of something, and you could do a lot for your family."

"What I can do for my family is get their week's food home," Carver snapped angrily, and turned away.

"I understand, I understand, you've got obligations to fulfill," the templar said behind him. "'course, when your brother gets back - assuming he does - you'll be needing to keep an eye out for him...apostate and all."

Carver's stomach clenched, but he strode on. "My brother can look out for himself," he tossed over his shoulder.

"Oh aye, I'm sure of it...how about that little elf girl, though? Seems like she'd benefit by some...protection, if you know what I mean."

Carver hesitated.

He didn't turn, but he heard the smile in the templar's voice.

"Just think it over, aye? If you're interested, take a trip over to the Gallows, have a look."

"I'll think it over," Carver gritted. His stomach was in knots now, and he thought he might vomit. By the time he got home, the urge had passed, but he didn't get a wink of sleep that night.

The next morning, he caught the boat to the Gallows.


	18. Last Words

"I know you are but what am I?!"

"You're a _jerk,_ Marian!"

"I know you are but what am I?!"

" _I said you're a JERK!!_ "

"You're a bigger jerk, Carver!"

"No, _you're_ a bigger jerk!"

"You're ugly!"

"You're stupid!"

" _You're_ stupid!"

"No, YOU are!"

"I know you are but what am I?!"

"Shut up!"

"No, YOU shut up!"

"You!"

"No, you!"

"No, YOU!"

" _QUIET!_ "

Malcolm Hawke didn't raise his voice often, but when he did, his children obeyed instantly. Marian threw herself into her room in a huff, and Carver stomped off outdoors with a scowl.

Malcolm dropped a quick kiss on his wife's head, as she sat at the table, rubbing her temples. "Oh, Malcolm. Tell me they'll out grow this."

"They will -" he said, and gave her another kiss "-outgrow this."


	19. Allergies

"I'm so very sorry, my love," Sebastian said, unable to meet Hawke's stricken gaze any longer. "It's just that...it can only be one of us. I want us to be together, and I'm willing to forego my Chantry vows to live here with you. If I can make that kind of sacrifice, can't you make this one?"

Hawke took a deep, tremulous breath.

  


***

  


  
Half an hour later, Sebastian presented himself before Grand Cleric Elthina and asked for his old room back.

"You are always welcome here, Sebastian," she said kindly. "But may I ask what happened?"

"I'm allergic to her Mabari," Sebastian said miserably, and slunk away to unpack.


	20. Breaking Point

There's a breaking point in every heart.

For Isabela, it's reached when Hawke tells the Arishok take her, and turns away.

For Fenris, it's reached when Hawke surrenders him to Danarius, and turns away.

For Anders, it's reached when Hawke offers to stand with Meredith, enforcing the Rite of Annulment, and turns away.

And for Hawke? That point won't be reached for some years yet, but when it is, Hawke will find there's nothing left to turn away from, and worse yet, nowhere left to turn.


	21. Maybe I'm Going Mad/I Made My Choice

Weisshaupt was cold; cold stones, cold land, cold people. Alistair, though, was flushed and perspiring as he followed Aedan Cousland out of the First Warden's study. He wasn't sure if it was rage or shock that made him feel like he was standing too close to a fire, but he knew it was sheer revulsion making his stomach roil and churn.

"Aedan!" he shouted, breaking into a jog. Aedan's efficient strides had carried him halfway down the corridor before Alistair caught up, but when Alistair grabbed his arm, Aedan stopped and turned to face him.

"Yes?"

Alistair floundered. " _Yes?_ That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want an explanation, dammit!"

Aedan shrugged his arm away and Alistair dropped his hand. For a moment Alistair expected Aeden to stride off again, leaving Alistair to follow in his wake as he had for so many months on the road, but for once Aedan stayed still, his cool grey eyes questioning, his full attention engaged.

"I did explain. You were there."

Alistair didn't want to lose his temper, but he heard the volume of his own voice rising. "I heard you explain _what_ happened - I heard you describe the ritual - what I want to hear is _why!_ "

Aedan's eyes flicked Alistair up and down, scornfully. Usually that look was enough to quiet Alistair but he was too angry to let it affect him now.

"' _Why_ '?" snapped Aedan. "What kind of moronic question is that?"

" _How,_ then - how could you make such a - a dangerous and, and - all right, stupid choice? Without even consulting me?"

"Consulting _you?_ " asked Aedan softly, dangerously, but Alistair plunged on.

"You may have put the entire future in danger! You accepted Morrigan's insane offer, and now we might be worse off than ever. You betrayed your duty as a Warden, out of sheer -" Alistair stopped, not wanting to let the word he was thinking slip out.

Aedan wasn't so reticent. "Cowardice?" he asked. "Is that what you were going to say?"

Alistair clenched his teeth, but nodded.

Aedan stepped closer, and Alistair found himself backing up. The grey eyes weren't cool now, they were alight with fury, but Aedan's voice was still level and cold.

"I have served the Wardens, Alistair. I never asked to be one. I was conscripted against my will, as you may recall, but I have served. I have fought Darkspawn, I have built an army, I have secured two thrones, and I have slain an Archdemon. I never wanted to do any of it, but it was my duty as a Warden, and I did it.

"The one thing - the _only_ thing - the Wardens have asked of me which I have refused to do, is to die. When Morrigan offered a way out, yes, I took it. Maybe it was madness, but it was my choice. I chose to live, Alistair, for as long as possible."

"But..." Alistair was floundering again.

"And I chose for you to live too. Hate me if you want to, but it's done now."

"It's not done as long as Urthemiel remains."

"Then I guess you have some choices of your own, don't you?" Aedan smiled mirthlessly. He turned and strode away again, and for once, Alistair didn't follow.


	22. Victory

_"Victory! Victory! Victory!"_ The cry went up from the rooftop, spread to the fighters below as the darkspawn turned and began to run in confusion. _"Victory!_ " was heard in the Alienage, and soon after in the market district, even as fires continued to consume it. _"Victory!_ " they cried; and wept, and hugged each other - humans, elves and dwarves; nobles and commoners, merchants and children. Denerim was saved.

Stroking Alistair's still face, Elissa didn't hear it. She was aware only of the cooling form in her arms, and later, of a large presence standing silently next to her.

"I failed," she whispered hoarsely. "I failed."

A huge pair of hands reached down and, with surprising gentleness, gathered up Alistair's body. Still on her knees, Elissa looked up in puzzlement.

"There is no failure in a death with purpose," rumbled a deep voice.

Elissa only stared until the voice spoke again.

"Come, kadan," Sten said, and together they left the rooftop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...killing Alistair again?!


	23. Morning Ritual

He rises with the sun.

He dresses, splashes his face with water, dries it off. Makes the narrow bed, glances around the room for anything out of place.

The straightbacked wooden chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room, is slightly askew.

He sets it back against the wall so it is aligned perfectly with the bed, and then steps into the hallway.

Carver is waiting.

Together they walk down to the dining hall. They will eat breakfast together, then Carver will escort him to his workstation, and that is where he will remain until it is time to remain no longer. They have repeated this ritual for the last 374 days.

The anniversary of the battle in the Gallows has passed without observance.

On this morning, morning 375, something changes. Carver takes his elbow and gently but firmly steers him into an anteroom. Once inside, Carver takes his head gently between his hands and peers into his face. Carver looks bad, eyes sunken and face gaunt. He has noticed this deterioration over the months but allowed it to pass without comment. Now, he accepts the scrutiny without speaking.

"Garrett," says Carver finally.

"Yes, Carver?"

Carver lifts one hand to trace the brand on Garrett's forehead.

"You're never coming back." It is a statement.

"From where?" he asks.

Carver's eyes close and he drops his hands, then raises them again to slide them around Garrett. He accepts the embrace.

Garrett stands still as Carver holds him, and only flinches a little when the knife is driven between his ribs.


	24. Zevran and the Warden

“And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at last,” Taliesen drawled as the elf moved cautiously toward the base of the stairs. The Dalish evaded the traps easily, but that was expected; they were as much a part of the ritual as candles in the Chantry. “But where is Zevran?”

“Here I am,” replied that luxurious voice, the Antivan appearing suddenly at the Warden’s side (and just how did the flamboyant bastard manage that anyway? Every Crow could use shadows as concealment, but Zevran was the only one Taliesan had ever known who could use a shaft of sunlight just as adeptly).

The Warden turned his head to look at Zevran and Zevran looked back, and in that wordless exchange Taliesen saw everything he needed to know. Oh, they would observe the formalities – like the traps, the pre-battle banter was part of the ritual – but Taliesen already knew it was pointless. Directing his best smile at the two elves while surreptitiously signaling to the hidden assassins that this would be wet work, Taliesen thought _I should have stayed in Antiva._


	25. Vengeance

It is triumph, certainly; it is elation and jubilation and victory, victory at last – all this and more crowding from his thundering heart and into his mouth and it tastes so good; but at this moment he can admit to himself that it’s also vengeance he tastes. He can feel it on his tongue, roll it around in his mouth, crunch it between his teeth and it tastes like stone, the stone of his forefathers, the stone that gave his people life and strength, and it is so very good.

He barely registers the shouts of the deshyrs as he watches the tool of his vengeance walk forward, bearing some ugly mess of metal that they are calling a crown. A crown forged by a Paragon for the true King of Orzammar, and oh he will wear that crown, he’ll sleep with it in his arms at night, because it is his. It is his, and it is the symbol of his vengeance.

Vengeance on Trian, for being born first, and more – for being Trian.

Vengeance on his father, for having no use for a third child. For shopping him like a nug to that Stone blasted Warden, simply because he couldn’t think of another purpose for him.

Vengeance on the Grey Wardens, because they weren’t interested. He didn’t want to be a Warden, but they should have offered.

Vengeance on Harrowmont, for fighting him every step of the way.

Vengeance on every deshyr, every merchant, every warrior who looked at him and saw only Endrin’s youngest, not good enough to be heir, not good enough to be King.

But mostly, vengeance on his sister – favored by his father, favored by their brother, favored by all who spoke with her, heard her easy laugh, watched her behead darkspawn in the deep roads with the easy grace of a warrior of twice her experience. Favored by the Wardens, who went away disappointed after she turned down their offer. Favored by every Stone blasted dwarf in Orzammar, who welcomed her back from exile as if it had never happened; a Grey Warden after all.

But now they will all know who the real king is, because here is the favored one, and she is his lackey – it is her service putting him on the throne, and he will never let her forget it. Every order he has given her - “Influence these deshyrs.” “Kill Jarvia.” “Find Branka” – he has been the hand controlling her like a puppet. The fact that for all her successes, she finally has to throw in with him and give him what he wants, what he craves, makes this moment all the sweeter. Vengeance, he thinks again, is so very very good.

She stops in front of Steward Bandelor and the room hushes, waiting. “For whom does Paragon Branka intend this crown?” Bandelor asks, his voice tense.

Bhelen feels vengeance turn to dust in his mouth as she smiles directly at him and says, “For Lord Harrowmont.”


	26. Alistair and the Warden try to explain to the First Warden how they survived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too much angst, let's get a little humor up in here.

"Remember: we don't know what happened," said Aedan, as they trudged down the cavernous halls of Weisshaupt on their way to the First Warden's study.

"Right!" replied Alistair, staring straight ahead.

"For all we know Riordan wounded it mortally before his death," said Aedan.

"Right!" replied Alistair.

"Alistair!" snapped Aedan, grabbing his arm and spinning him about so they were facing each other. "This is important, dammit! You need to keep this straight!"

"I know, Aedan. I know the story. We don't know what happened. We both expected to die but didn't. We are terribly befuddled yet thankful to be alive. We're just a couple of dumb recruits who really don't grasp the import of what happened at the top of that tower. That's our story, and we're sticking to it."

Aedan let out a deep breath and released Alistair's arm. "Look, just let me do the talking, all right? I won't have you screwing this up."

Alistair tried to glare darkly but gave it up after a moment. "Sure, fine. Let's just get this over with," he muttered. They continued the rest of the way in silence.

The First Warden regarded them over his desk. "Well, gentlemen? I think you know what I want - I want to know how you slew an Archdemon and survived."

Alistair stole a furtive glance at his fellow Warden. Aedan was regarding the First Warden with that infuriating coolness that was his trademark. Aedan smiled just a bit, looking off to a point in the distance behind the First Warden's shoulder, but said nothing.

"I'm waiting."

Alistair took a deep breath and started to speak. "We don't really know - " was as far as he got, before Aedan burst out: "We were offered a ritual by a Witch of the Wilds and I slept with her and she's pregnant with my baby and the baby is possessed with the soul of the Old God that used to possess the Archdemon and I have no idea where she is and it was probably blood magic and I'm so, so sorry!"

Then Aedan Cousland, famed throughout Ferelden for his quick wits, sharp tongue and cool head in a crisis, collapsed in a sobbing heap in front of the First Warden's desk.

It was a long time before either Alistair or the First Warden could say a word.


	27. Harlot's Blush

Hawke was coming down the steps to the guard barracks when Guardsman Donnic came running - sprinting in point of fact - out of Aveline's office. He was followed by a helmet that appeared to have been thrown very hard (and which narrowly missed him) and a bouquet of flowers. The door was slammed decisively behind him.

Hawke stared in amazement. "What is going on here, Donnic?"

Donnic swore and picked up the helmet. "Gah...Aveline spent so much time trying to court me, I just wanted to return the favor, so I got her some flowers. Isn't that what you do? Get a woman flowers?"

Hawke examined the scattered blooms. "Yes, but...Harlot's Blush, Donnic? Really?"

"Yeah, I didn't know that," muttered Donnic and stormed off.

"Maker," said Hawke. "They're both bad at this."


	28. I Saw You Praying In The Chantry

They were back to the estate and nearly to the top of the stairs before Anders could speak.

"You know, usually when someone's on his knees in the chantry, it's for praying, not for - for what you were doing to Sebastian."

"You wanted a distraction. I gave you one."

"I asked you to distract Elthina for a few minutes, not -"

Hawke whirled on him. "Elthina wasn't there, so I _distracted_ Sebastian, just like you asked me to." Anders took an involuntary step back. He'd heard that knife-edged tone before, but never directed against him. Usually it meant someone was going to be sprouting a blade from an eye socket.

But his shock and hurt wouldn't let him be silent. "That is NOT what I asked you to do!"

"Isn't it? 'Do this, Hawke, do that, Hawke, I'll love you as long as you keep giving me what I want and never ask for an explanation.' If you're going to treat me like a whore, don't be surprised when I act like one."

Hawke stormed into the bedroom and when Anders tried to follow, for the first time in three years he found the door slammed in his face.


	29. What King Alistair Did For Fun In Kirkwall

"Oh, come on, Teagan! Now that we've got business out of the way let's have some fun!"

"It's not really my idea of fun, Alis - your Majesty."

"It will be, you'll see! There's no place like this in all of Ferelden."

"Thank the Maker."

"Oh, quit muttering. Now, which door is - here we go!"

"Your majesty, we've been expecting you! Welcome to Curdwall, the City of Cheese, finest cheesery in all the Free Marches!"


	30. The One With The Morning After

Hawke picked her way through the rubble, eyes burning with exhaustion and smoke. She'd lost track of how many tears she'd shed through the night, how much blood she'd lost, how many people she'd killed. She was covered in soot and gore and felt like she might never be clean again.

Carefully, mindful of the groaning foundation, she worked her way further into the ruins of the Chantry. Hardly anything was recognizable, although the huge statue of Andraste, twisted and toppled, could be seen at one end. The rest was broken stone, broken wood, broken bodies. An arm stuck out from under a collapsed pillar; a pile of rags pierced with a jagged piece of wood turned out, on closer inspection, to be the body of a lay sister. Farther up there was a dusty gleam of armor. _Templar guards_ , she thought dully. _Kill them here, you don't have to kill them in the streets._ She worked her way forward.

Anders cleared his throat behind her. "I...I think we should go," he said nervously. "Isabela doesn't think she'll have much time to get out of the harbor..." _Why is he still here? Why didn't I kill him last night? Was it a mistake?_

"Go where you want," she said, tiredly, indifferently. "But you can't come with me." A stone shifted treacherously under her foot and she caught herself.

"It's not safe here," Anders said softly. 

"Yes, you made quite sure of that, didn't you?" she asked mockingly, bitterly. He flinched. She picked her way toward the dead Templar, because it was a landmark in this wasteland.

"Hawke," he said for the millionth time. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. But I promise this was necessary, that it will all be worth it in the end. You'll see..."

She wasn't listening any longer. She knelt next to the Templar's body. It was mostly covered in dust, the face turned away from her, but she could see that the hair was black. Black, and unruly. 

And just why hadn't she seen Carver during the fighting last night, anyway? 

She gently reached out, touched the Templar's chin, and turned his face toward hers. The other side of his head was entirely caved in, the blue eyes dull and glazed. She closed them with fingers that felt numb.

Anders gasped behind her. "Oh, dear Maker...oh Hawke..."

"You need to leave now, Anders," she said, very softly. He covered his face in his hands and rocked back and forth on his feet. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"You. Need. To. Leave," she said more strongly. Softly she added, "Before there's another explosion."

He stumbled away from her, through the stones and the wood and the blood, and although she would hear of his exploits in the years to come, she never saw his face again outside of her dreams.


	31. You Stink

Hawke hurried to the Hanged Man as soon as the messenger delivered the note. It wasn't often that Varric summoned her, but it was always urgent when he did.

Entering his suite, she was surprised to find not only Varric, but all of her closest friends gathered. Fenris leaned against the back wall with his arms folded, looking surly; Isabela was draped over the dwarf's bed; Aveline stood resolutely nearby. Sebastian, Merrill and Anders were all crowded around the table, looking variously embarrassed, anxious and exasperated.

Varric shut the door behind her. She turned all the way around, eyeing each friend in turn, wondering what on Thedas this was all about.

"Varric?" she asked cautiously. "What's going on here?"

"Hawke," he began. "We are your friends and we care about you."

"Ye...ess?" she replied.

"The thing is, Hawke, there's something we need to talk to you about as a group. Since we all travel together so much it's something that affects all of us, and ..." he trailed off, and seemed to be trying to figure out what to say next.

"Varric, I've never seen you at a loss for words before."

"Someone want to help me out here?" Varric asked the room weakly. Hawke surveyed her companions again. None of them would meet her eye except for Fenris, who suddenly pushed off from the wall.

"It's like this, Hawke," he snapped. "Either start bathing that Mabari or stop letting him sleep in your bed."


	32. Inappropriate Laughter

" _Maker, NOOOOO!_ " cried Sebastian, falling to his knees. "Elthina! NOOO! She was your most faithful, your most beloved...THIS ISN'T FUNNY, HAWKE!!!"

"I know, I know! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Carry on."


	33. Just Another Day In Kirkwall

Morning. Hawke stretched, dressed, and headed downstairs. "Morning, Bodahn, Sandal!" he called to the two dwarves who were frantically putting out a fire in what remained of the kitchen. "Morning, Messere!" replied Bodahn cheerfully. "Boom!" added Sandal.

Hawke headed down through the cellars and into Darktown, maneuvering toward Anders' clinic. As he reached the door he sidestepped a Templar who was blown out of it backward in a flash of angry blue light. "Anders!" Hawke called, through the splintered doorway. Blazing with cerulean light, the healer turned to him. "Sundermount later, don't forget!" The mage gave him a thumbs up.

Dodging a pitched battle between Coterie and Carta, Hawke wended his way up to Hightown. He'd hoped to get a mine update from Hubert, but a smallish dragon was currently ravaging the marketplace, so he huffed in irritation and sidled around it. "Morning, Hawke!" called Worthy. "Good to see you!" Hawke smiled, helping the dwarf beat out the fire that was consuming his beard.

Plans thwarted, he detoured to Lowtown to check in with Varric. As he passed the Blooming Rose, Aveline and a group of guards charged past him to clash with a pack of raiders. "Aveline!" Hawke shouted. "Don't forget Sundermount!" She waved her sword in response. Hawke ducked a flying head and dropped down into Lowtown, passing through the market district where Qunari were rampaging through the stalls and being beaten back by a combination of merchants and bored Ferelden refugees. He tipped a nod to Fenris who was beating the Arishok's head against a brick wall. "Morning, Hawke," grunted the elf. Hawke kicked aside an attacking Mabari and entered the tavern.

A crossbow bolt whined past his ear and he waded through the morning brawl in the direction it had come from, tossing raiders aside. Spotting Varric at the top of the stairs, he mouthed "Sundermount!" and got a grin and nod in return.

Exiting the Hanged Man, he passed by a few abominations and moved on to the docks. Isabela was occupied with two desire demons and a ghoul, so he just gave her a grin and a wave. About time she took a day off.

Ending his constitutional at the pier, Hawke put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. "Ah, Kirkwall," he said fondly, squinting out toward the Gallows where he could just make out Knight Commander Meredith doing her best to choke the life out of First Enchanter Orsino, while he clubbed her with his staff. "There's no place like it."

Behind him, the Chantry went up in flames.


	34. Reunion

He'd taken a couple of trips to the Fade in his time, but this seemed different now. Instead of a vague sense of wrongness, it seemed comfortable, enveloping...no, that was dangerous. Wasn't it? Why? He couldn't seem to wrap his mind around the concept. Every instinct he had said he was safe, yet his mind recognized the incongruity.

His life...his life? He could remember his life, and he could remember the Fade, but he couldn't quite reconcile the transition between them. He had been running - he was always running, it seemed...from something? Toward something? He remembered pain, a crushing sensation in his chest, remembered his own blood spilling...it was getting hard to hold on to those images, but something about this place made him want to let them go. But if he did, he would lose his anchor back to his life. Wouldn't he? This place was confusing.

He felt like was waiting for something, but he didn't know what. That whisper of safety, the notion that he could rest, came again, but his mind tried to reject it. No place was safe; the first lesson. The only time he had ever felt safe was in the arms of a person he had lost long ago.

His surroundings shifted then, seeming to coalesce into something new, something nearly recognizable. It felt like...like early mornings, when the day was new and without stain. He felt as if he were beginning something anew, but what?

And that was when the arms slid around him from behind, and a pair of sun-browned hands that he remembered so well caressed his chest. Soft hair brushed against his cheek, dark strands mingling with his own, and the voice whispered, "My Crow."

Turning into the embrace, he let the tattered shreds of his life go, and whispered back. "My Warden."


	35. Obvious Sign Is Obvious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With respect to Daphne du Maurier and Steve Martin.

Hawke drifted forlornly around her empty manor. She stopped in front of the portrait of her mother as a young woman, and as she often did when she was in emotional turmoil, addressed it directly. "I miss you, Mother," she said softly. "I wish you were here to tell me what to do. Anders wants me to help him with some kind of potion, and I want to do it because I love him, but I just feel like something's off." She sighed. Dog wagged his stump of a tail.

"You always knew what to do," she said sadly, looking up at her mother's portrait and dashing away a tear. "Oh, mother. I wish you could just give me a sign as to whether I should help Anders or not."

Suddenly a cold wind seemed to blow through the house. Items crashed from shelves; furniture began to topple over. Doors began slamming themselves back and forth, the fires blazed up in all the hearths. Dog began a distressed howling that was enough to shatter one's bones. The chandelier shook violently, nearly coming loose from its moorings. The portrait of Leandra began to spin around and around on the wall. An unearthly voice seem to rise from all around, one word repeated over and over, louder and louder: "NO! NO! NO! NO!"

Suddenly, all of the chaos ceased; the fires returned to normal, the portrait stopped spinning, and there was silence.

Hawke wiped away another tear. "Just one sign, Mother. One tiny little sign, to show me the way..."


	36. Obvious Sign Is Obvious (2)

Surana leaned cautiously over the precipice in the Deep Roads. The immense canyon below was packed with darkspawn, enough for ten Ostagars. As far as the eye could see in either direction, they filled the gigantic chasm; their roaring and chanting filled Surana's head with noise and his Warden intuition was all but on fire with the sheer, overwhelming number of them.

And then, swooping under the bridge, came the Archdemon. Its bellow echoed off the walls and caused tiny avalanches all around. The horde responded in kind as they began to follow their leader toward the surface. The hideous, roiling mass of them began to move as one, like a writhing black river of evil.

Surana backed carefully away from the edge. Bumping into something, he realized he was standing next to one of the Dwarven signposts and clutched it for support. Alistair's face was ashen. "Merciful Maker," he whispered.

Surana steeled himself and stood up straighter. "We have to keep moving," he said, pleased that his voice didn't shake too much. "We'll need to find a route to skirt them." He looked up at the sign. "Oghren, does this say anything useful?"

The red-haired dwarf peered up at the runes on the sign. "Lessee..." he said. "Eh...no...not really."

"Well, what DOES it say?" Surana asked impatiently.

"'Possible darkspawn activity in this area. Proceed with caution.'"


	37. No Right Answer

The Archdemon dies in an explosion of white light, and Leliana is thrown backward. She lands hard, the breath knocked out of her. Distantly she hears the sounds of continuing battle. Gasping, she sits up, looks frantically for Aedan. Wynne and Alistair are both stumbling toward the dragon's corpse. No, not the dragon - something next to it.

She doesn't remember coming to her feet, but suddenly she has crossed the intervening ground; shoving Alistair aside, she drops to her knees next to Aedan. His eyes are closed, his chest is not moving. "Aedan. Aedan! Wake up! Aedan, can you hear me?!" Desperately she looks up at Alistair and Wynne, searching their faces for hope. "Wynne, can't you do something?" she begs, but the mage just looks at her with deep compassion and sorrow. She turns to Alistair, remembering that argument between the two warriors, just before Aedan charged the Archdemon. "Did you know this was going to happen?" she demands. "Why would you let him do this?!" Alistair claps a hand over his mouth, stifling a sob.

Leliana turns back to Aedan, and her tears fall on his still face as she strokes back his hair. "Please, mon amour," she whispers brokenly. "Won't you stay with me?"

Nobody answers.


	38. How Did it Get On The Ceiling?

"Hawke! Hawke, can you hear me?!"

"Yes, I...ungh. What happened?"

"You were caught in the edge of the blast and knocked out, but you'll be fine. Just lie back."

"Anders?"

"Yes?"

"Is that a spleen?"

"Yes."

"How did it get on the ceiling?"

"I showed them why mages are feared."

"Ah."

"Ready to get up?"

"I think I might lie here a bit longer."

"I can't guarantee that spleen's going to stay up there forever."

"In that case, I'm ready to get up."


	39. I Know Something You Don't Know

Gasping for breath and leaning on his staff, Anders griped "I hate the Deep Roads."

Hawke kicked at the body of a dead Hurlock, as if he expected it to carry coin.

"And I hate the darkspawn."

Isabela had moved off to poke among some rubble and clean gore off her daggers.

"And I hate these sodding giant spiders!"

Fenris was smiling.

"Seriously, this is the biggest spider I've ever seen." Anders jabbed the bulbous corpse with his staff. "It's the size of a Mabari. Possibly two."

Fenris was still smiling.

"Fenris!" snapped Anders.

"What?"

"Why are you smiling?"

"Because I know something you don't know, mage."

"And what, pray tell," Anders grumbled, trying to scrub ichor out of his feathers, "is that?"

"It's not the biggest spider I've ever seen," replied the elf, as he drew his greatsword again.

Anders saw Hawke and Isabela backing away, and suddenly, he really, _really_ didn't want to turn around.


	40. She Has Four Older Brothers

The harvest festival was in full swing. Festive lanterns decorated Lothering's main square, hay bales had been set around for extra seating, and cider and sweets were abundant.

Behind the Chantry board, Carver waited impatiently for Bethany to return. It was the Hawke family's first autumn in the small town, and he wasn't quite brave enough to approach the absolutely gorgeous girl he'd spotted earlier, so he'd sent Bethany to sound her out. When his twin finally did poke her head around the board, he dragged her the rest of the way behind it and demanded "Well? What did you find out? What's her name? Was she looking at me?"

"Her name is Peaches," Bethany reported dutifully. And I have good news and bad news."

"AND?!"

"The good news is, she was looking, and she is interested." Carver beamed.

"The bad news is, she has four older brothers."

Carver's face fell. "Damn!" he grumped. "I'm going to get more cider." He stomped off.

As soon as he'd gone, Garrett slid in beside Bethany. "Well? Did you find out anything about her? What's her name? Was she really looking at me?"

"Her name is Peaches," Bethany reported with a sigh. "And I have good news and bad news."

"AND?!"

"The bad news is, she was looking, and she is interested." Garrett's face fell.

"The good news is, she has four older brothers."

Garrett's face lit up. "Now, _that's_ more like it!"


	41. After the End

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

She was supposed to be their protector, their champion. First for her sister, to protect her magic. Then her brother, to protect him from his own impetuousness. Then her whole family, because her father was gone. And after that, all of Ferelden, as a soldier against the Blight. She was supposed to be able to build a home and strengthen it over the years, make herself a link in the chain her parents had begun and pass something better on to the next generation when the time came.

She had failed at all of it.

Now here she was, literally adrift, in the hold of this ship which smelled of unwashed bodies and rot, with nothing but the clothes on her back and the mother and sister she hadn't been able to shield. Behind them lay the ravaging Blight and the graves of those they loved.

Her life was over, her home gone, and she had no idea what came after.


	42. Leave

"Hawke, I think we need some more muscle on this one," said the dwarf as he, Hawke and Isabela left the Hanged Man.

"Agreed," said Hawke, shifting his staff. "Let's snag Carver and we'll head out." He ignored Varric's very slight groan of annoyance.

Bursting into Gamlen's hovel, Hawke waved hello to his uncle and mother before asking where Carver was. "Oh, taking a nap, I think, dear," said Leandra distractedly as she scribbled away at letters to the Viscount.

Varric and Isabela hung back a little as Hawke bounded across the main room and flung open the bedroom door. "Carver! Rise and shine, little bro, we've got work - OH HOLY MAKER!!!"

Rushing forward in alarm, Varric waved Gamlen and Leandra back. He raised Bianca as he got to the room door, then stepped away just as quickly. "AH! Ah, sorry, Carver - uh, yeah, sorry."

"Don't you people ever knock?!" yelled Carver in a strangled tone.

Hawke was leaning against the wall outside the door with both hands clapped over his eyes. "Sweet tits of Andraste, I can't unsee that!"

Isabela was now peering around the doorframe. "I could stand to see a little more," she purred.

"It's nothing you haven't done, Garrett!"

"It's different when it's you!"

Gamlen and Leandra were now crowding around the door. "Carver dear, are you -" Leandra's face turned white and then crimson.

"At least I have the decency to go to the Rose for that kind of thing," Gamlen grumped.

"Gamlen!" said Leandra, scandalized.

"LEAVE!!!" yelled Carver.

Varric pulled the door shut and then steered Hawke and Isabela toward the front door, despite the one still looking over her shoulder and the other pretending to be blind.

"Good day to you madam, Serah," said the dwarf, making a hasty bow at the door before dragging his comrades through it.

After a long moment, Hawke took a deep breath.

"Okay. Let's snag Aveline and we'll head out..."


	43. Dirty Trick

"Okay, Hawke. Deep breath. I'm going to pull on the count of three. Ready?"

Hawke nodded. Looking into his eyes to steady him, Isabela grasped the shaft of the arrow which protruded from his thigh and started the count. "One -" She yanked.

Hawke yelled in agony as Isabela tossed the arrow aside. After he'd stopped thrashing he grumbled "That was a damned dirty trick, Iz."

She shrugged unconcernedly and began bandaging his leg. "Well, maybe next time you'll bring a healer along instead of a pirate."


	44. It's A Rock, It Doesn't Have Any Vulnerable Spots

"Shoot it, shoot it, shoot it again!" Hawke yelled wildly. He was nearly out of mana and his spells were going wild.

Carver was hacking frenziedly at one of the rock wraith's legs while Isabela was actually trying to shimmy up and jab a dagger into some weak spot. She succeeded only in breaking the dagger off at the hilt and being thrown some distance away. Hawke flung a healing spell in the rogue's direction and hoped it would be enough.

"I'm trying!" Varric yelled back, letting loose another volley.

"Aim for the vulnerable spots!"

"It's. A. _ROCK!_ It doesn't _have_ any vulnerable spots!"

Somehow, they eventually wore the creature down, and when there was nothing left but a pile of boulders, Hawke leaned against his staff, panting and trying not to collapse.

"'Be a partner in the expedition, Hawke,'" he complained sarcastically to Varric. "'Sure you can trust Bartrand, Hawke.' 'We're all going to be rich, Hawke,' Nothing at all was said about giant flaming walking rocks."

"We _are_ all going to be rich, Hawke," Varric breathed, peering into the next chamber. Hawke, Carver and Isabela joined him and they stared in wonder at the masses of gold, jewels, statuary and other treasure on display. Isabela gave a low whistle.

"And this," Varric said, "appears to be the key we need to get back to the upper levels."

Good spirits restored, Hawke grinned. "Well then, I guess we're just about home and dry, eh?" He clapped Carver on the back, then looked around at his brother.

"You're awfully quiet...you feeling okay?"

"Eh? Yeah...yeah, I'm fine."


	45. Andraste's _______!

"Oh, by Andraste's flaming....lice ridden...." Hawke sputtered as she danced around, shaking her hand in pain.

"Pus-filled, oozing -" Isabela helpfully supplied.

"Dog-licked -"

Before she could finish the epithet Sebastian lost his patience. "Enough!" he snapped.

"Er, what?" asked Hawke, as Isabela finished opening the trapped lock which had burned her fingers and started the tirade in the first place.

"Would you both please try to show a little more respect for the bride of the Maker? At least where I can _hear_ you? Talking about her...private bits like that is blasphemous."

"Okay, Sebastian," said Isabela with surprising meekness.

"We're sorry, Sebastian," said Hawke, with equally surprising meekness.

"Thank you," he said, and headed down the path along the Wounded Coast. He felt bad for snapping at them, but there was a limit.

The two women trailed along behind him, and he tensed a bit when he heard Hawke say: "Izzy, if we can't talk about her private bits, what should we say?"

"Good question. How about..."Andraste's...earlobes?"

"Andraste's kneecaps."

"Andraste's left pinky toe!"

"Andraste's shapely calves!"

"Ooh, good one. Andraste's...sparklefingers?"

"Andraste's softly rounded buttocks?"

"Andraste's hot, questing tongue?"

"Andraste's soft, pliant lips!"

"Andraste's -"

" _Shut. Up,_ " gritted Sebastian. "Not. One. More. Word."

There was a moment of silence.

"Are his ears red, Izzy?"

"I think they are, Mari. I think they are."


	46. Give Me A Break

"Oh, give me a break, Carver!" Hawke shouted, finally losing patience. "This is a bunch of crap and you know it!"

"It's true," Carver returned truculently, glaring.

"Okay, fine, it's true. You were off in the Deep Roads -"

"Yes."

"Doing 'Grey Wardeny' things -"

"Yes, and the sarcastic finger wiggling is _not_ appreciated."

"When suddenly you and your companions, all, what? Three?"

"Yes."

"Were set upon by this band of mixed circle mages and renegade templars."

"Ye...ees."

"Who can barely manage to hold a meeting in secret, much less sneak out of the Gallows."

"That's right."

"And out of Kirkwall."

"Yes..."

"And find one specific Gray Warden in all of the Deep Roads without anyone getting killed or caught."

"Um...yes."

"And then overpower a party of Gray Wardens and kidnap that specific one, dragging him ALL the way back to Kirkwall."

"Er, yes."

"All on the off chance that *I* might get involved with untangling their plot somehow and you would be useful as a hostage."

"Yes."

"This is what you're telling me."

"This is what I'm telling you," said Carver stubbornly, but a red flush had crept up his neck and was starting to stain his face.

Hawke stared at him for a moment, then announced, "You are the worst Gray Warden I've ever seen."


	47. Got Any More Bright Ideas?

"This was an absolutely _brilliant_ idea," Hawke snapped. "What an incredible _smell_ you've discovered." He slipped and slid over slimy rocks as the group trudged deeper into the cave, their way illuminated only by Anders' floating magelight.

"Oh, hush," replied Isabela airily. "I promise you, when we find Captain Hortense's stash, you won't regret a minute of this trip."

"There's mud, Isabela," growled Hawke, slogging through 4-inch-deep muck. "You're going to owe me a new pair of boots."

"You'll be able to buy a dozen pairs, I swear! This stash is legendary. There's gold -"

"There's slime."

"Jewels -"

"Insects -"

"Magical trinkets -"

"SPIDERS!!!" Anders yelled, and that was when they were suddenly surrounded by mabari-sized arachnids.

"Huh," Isabela said in perplexity. "To be honest I wasn't expecting this."


	48. Growing Old

He'd never given much thought to growing old. It wasn't something that happened to Crows, as a rule. They led violent and vicious lives and most of them died the same way, long before age became a factor.

Even after meeting his Warden, he didn't give it much consideration. The Blight and the mage wars and the bloody ascendance up the ranks of the Crow hierarchy all provided ample opportunity for a sudden and grisly ending.

There were still dangers now - a rival could always challenge him for leadership of the Guild, or another war could break out; another archdemon could arise, or an earthquake could swallow him whole. There were illnesses, accidents, murderers and disasters everywhere which could claim a life.

But at the age of 53, he wasn't even really close to what he would consider "old"; he was fit, he was careful, and in general, he was living in an era of relative peace. He could live another 30 years, or 40, or possibly even longer, elves being somewhat longer-lived than humans.

40 years.

Alone.

In the blackness which consumed him after Theron left for his Calling, Zevran truly understood that there were fates worse than death.


	49. No Longer The Only Child

Garrett was bored. Auntie Miriam couldn't do any tricks like Papa did, and she didn't snuggle with him at bedtime and tell him stories like Mama. Oh, she was kind enough, but he missed home and his parents.

He only had to spend the one night, though, before Papa came to get him. He clung to Papa's leg while Papa told Auntie Miriam something about Mama and twins and something else, but he wasn't paying much attention. It was time to go home! At last, after squirming out of Auntie Miriam's hug, Garrett was swung up to Papa's shoulders and they headed home.

"I have a wonderful surprise for you, Garrett!" Papa said, and he sounded so excited that Garrett wanted to bounce. Maybe it was the puppy he'd been promised for "when we settle in someplace," or maybe it was a new toy, or maybe...

When they got back to the house Garrett slid down Papa and rushed into the bedroom to see Mama. She was sitting up in bed cuddling a tiny bundle. One of the town ladies was sitting in the rocker by the window, smiling down at another bundle.

"Mama! Mama!" Garrett shouted, climbing on the bed. He was shushed instantly by all three adults, but Mama drew him close with one hand and held up the bundle for him to see. Garrett was mystified. It certainly wasn't a puppy.

"This is your new baby sister," Mama told him. "Her name is Bethany. Isn't she beautiful?"

Garrett was silent. The baby stretched and yawned before snuffling back into sleep.

Papa, meanwhile, had taken the other bundle from the town lady and brought it over. "And this is Carver, your baby brother," said Papa. Garrett looked. This one looked exactly like the other one, except instead of yawning, this baby let out an ear-piercing squall and then upchucked.

"Well what do you think, son?" said Papa, laughing, as he wiped up the mess.

"I like the girl one better," said Garrett forlornly.


	50. Living the Dream

Other Wardens report variety in their darkspawn-haunted dreams, but Carver's is always the same.

_He enters the Deep Roads from the Free Marches, the same place where he and Marian had followed Bartrand on that ill-fated expedition. He fights his way down, soon lost in the never-ending passageways. He is hounded by darkspawn but not overwhelmed, at least at first; they come in groups of twos and threes and he fights each group off, sending heads flying and hacking off limbs. He is soon soaked in their blood._

_Eventually he begins to tire, because although the attacks are defeatable, they harry him, never allowing him to rest or regain his strength, and even Gray Warden stamina has its limits. His arms burn and his legs feel like lead; he can taste nothing but the foul black blood which splashes in his face, stinging his eyes._

_Finally he is driven to a wide rectangular chamber and he is surrounded; but they don't rush him yet, just ring him, seething and snapping and snarling. He waits for the inevitable charge, sword raised for one final stand; and that is when the ranks of Hurlocks and Genlocks part and the ogre charges through. Carver meets it head on but he is tired, so tired, and it is strong; he feels himself lifted by a crushing hand, and as the ogre smashes him into the stone floor he has time to think, _Bethany.__

__The dream comes every night in the beginning, sometimes several times, but eventually it fades away, and he goes for years without being troubled by it at all. But eventually it returns, and he can see in his wrists and throat how his veins are beginning to darken, see in the mirror how his eyes are starting to cloud over and bruises start to turn to dark, mottled patches._ _

__When at last his nights become more nightmare than sleep, he bids farewell to Vigil's Keep, and takes ship for the Free Marches._ _


	51. I Would Have Followed You, My Brother..My Captain...My King

"Look, Aedan," said Alistair tiredly. He scrubbed at his red eyes with the heels of his hands. "Just go away, all right? I don't want to talk about it anymore, don't want to rehash it anymore."

"I don't know how many times I can say I'm sorry," said Aedan.

"You've said it enough. I believe you." Alistair waved at the barmaid to refill his tankard, even though it was barely midmorning. Norah replenished his drink without comment, she was used to him.

"You really don't see any kind of...well, symmetry, in what happened?" Aedan asked. "Loghain betrayed the king and the army because he didn't believe in the Blight, yet at the end he had to die to the Archdemon."

"Symmetry?" said Alistair unbelievingly. "What about _justice_?" A blond dwarf with an impressive looking crossbow happened to be walking by at that moment and gave them a sharp look as he passed.

"Call it justice, then," said Aedan. He was tired and heartsick at finding Alistair in this condition, but not quite ready to give up completely. He leaned forward over the table, trying to get Alistair to meet his eyes. "He paid with his life, and you would have been king. That would have been justice."

"It doesn't matter," said Alistair tonelessly. "I'm not angry anymore anyway, it's just been too long, but I can't change anything now. I would have made a terrible king anyway, not like Maric or Cailan. Who'd have followed me?"

A long moment passed.

"I would have," said Aedan at last.


	52. How Could Anyone Not Love The Terrible Things You Do

" _Blood magic,_ " spat Carver, as they strode away from the prison tower. Well, maybe "stumbled" was a better word. Sarah and Isabela practically held each other up, and even Varric's doughty dwarven stamina seemed depleted. Only Carver showed any energy, and that was based on pure rage.

"All those years teaching you and Bethany that blood magic was wrong, all those years telling me that I needed to be on my guard for it, and he was lying. He was a hypocrite. And I've been the one trying to convince Cullen and Meredith that you can't accuse all mages of blood magic because of a few. And all the time, my father" - Carver stopped and pounded a gauntleted fist against a column in fury before continuing his rant - "my own _father_!!"

He stood still finally, but his chest heaved with the force of his anger, and then he focused his ire on Sarah.

"You don't have much to say on the subject," he snapped at her. "Doesn't this make you angry?"

Sarah regarded him coolly for a second before turning to take a last look at the tower. Idly, she traced the inside of one wrist with the fingers of her other hand, feeling the network of near-invisible scars there.

"You know," she replied to her seething brother, "it really doesn't."


	53. What Am I Going To Do With A Raven Feather?

"Who puts one raven feather in a locked chest?" grumbled Hawke, twirling the thing between his fingers. "Honestly, I find so many of these this way, you'd think raven feathers were made of pure gold."

He made to toss the feather off to the side, but Anders plucked it from Hawke's fingers.

"I'll take it," he said with a smile. "I might need a new coat someday."


	54. Dragon Bones

Hawke was just trying to slip unobtrusively through the common room to reach Varric's suite when he heard himself mentioned.

"I heard the Champion sleeps on a bed of dragon bones," one drunken patron was saying conspiratorially to another. "And I also heard -" Blearily, he craned his head around when his companion started waving and pointing behind him. It took him a moment to focus his eyes, but when he did, he stammered "Champion! Um...er, I didn't see you there!"

"I don't sleep on a bed of dragon bones," said Hawke tiredly.

"Oh no, of course you don't, I was just saying how silly these rumors are," said the drunk, in something of a panic.

"I sleep on a bed made out of darkspawn skulls. Everyone knows dragon bones are dining room furniture," said Hawke, before heading for the stairs.


	55. Your Heart On The Line

"So," said Hawke.

"So," agreed Isabela, taking a swig. She waved at Corff to refill her drink.

"You're back," said Hawke.

"I am indeed."

"How do you know I want you back?" said Hawke. "You did leave me to face the Qunari alone."

"True, but I came back."

"Yes, but then you left again."

"Yes, but now I'm back again."

Isabela drank. Hawke fidgeted with his tankard until he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Why are you back?"

"I think you know why, sweet thing."

He looked at her. "Seems unlike you, to put your heart on the line."

"It is, isn't it?" She pressed close, sliding her arms around his neck. Almost - but not quite - reluctantly, his arms slid around her waist in response.

Nuzzling his ear, she said softly: "But then, you know I never bet anything I'm not prepared to lose."


	56. You're Holding Me Back

Merrill stumbled occasionally, and Isabela would catch her with a hand under an elbow, or direct her gently another way when the little mage seemed about to crash into a wall. She kept wiping away her tears but soon her face would be damp again, and she muttered to herself about what could have gone wrong. Hawke's heart ached for her, but he was about as good with expressing sympathy as his mabari was, and he didn't think licking her face was appropriate.

"Did you see his face?" Merrill asked brokenly, her eyes searching Isabela's desperately for reassurance.

"I know, kitten," soothed the pirate.

"He looked at me like I was some kind of - of monster!"

"You _are_ a monster," said Fenris acidly. Merrill flinched as if he had struck her.

"You're not helping, Fenris," Isabela snapped.

"Good," was the growled reply. Merrill dissolved into sobs.

Isabela reached out and very deliberately took both of Hawke's hands, placing one on each of her shoulders. "Hawke, my dear friend," she said brightly. "The only reason I'm not killing him right now is because you're holding me back."

Hawke stared at her. Fenris stared back and forth between the two of them.

After a moment Hawke stepped away and put an arm around Merrill's shoulders. "Come on, kid," he said cheerfully. "Let's get you out of here."

He urged her on faster when the fight started behind them.


	57. Right On Time

Sometimes, even in the Deep Roads, a man has to pee.

Anders was so relieved to have a few minutes to, er, relieve himself privately that he barely registered the commotion from back down the corridor. Therefore, he was shocked when he returned to the group and found them lying around on the stone in a state of disarray, clearly having just encountered a few more of the weird "profane" creatures and engaged in a short, sharp fight.

Fenris was groaning against one wall, holding his ribs; and Varric was bleeding profusely from a head wound. Hawke, leaning on his greatsword, appeared generally unbroken, although badly bruised and ruffled up.

Horrified, Anders hurried first to Varric, who muttered "You're late, Blondie," as the mage healed the cut on his head.

Anders drew himself up proudly. No matter how guilty he felt internally, it would never do to show it.

"A mage is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to," he intoned grandly.

Hawke looked around at the mess and snorted.

"No," he snapped irritably. "You're sodding late."


	58. Why Don't You Do Some Work?

For once the hovel was blessedly empty; Mother and Bethany were out somewhere, and Gamlen was no doubt at the Blooming Rose again. Hawke tossed his armor into a corner and then dropped into the rickety armchair before the fireplace, groaning in relief at finally being off his feet. Mentally, he started running over the list of accomplishments of the last several weeks.

Helped Aveline ferret out corruption in the Guard - check.

Delivered Flemeth's amulet to the Dalish - check.

Escorted a Qunari mage to "freedom" - check.

Helped Anders in his failed bid to rescue a mage friend - check.

Helped Isabela take out the raiders who were after her - check.

Found Martin's lost cargo of poisons - check.

Tracked down Athenril's missing shipment of...whatever - check.

Hunted down a lost elf-human mage boy - check.

Took out most of the Tal-Vashoth on the Wounded Coast - check.

Rescued the Viscount's son - check.

Something something and...something...

He had actually dropped off to sleep as he was going over the list in his mind, and was pleasantly involved in a dream of swimming in the river near Lothering with Lady Elegant and the Arishok when the door slammed open. He woke with a start as an unpleasant voice shattered his dream.

"Sleeping again?" griped Gamlen. "Why don't you try earning your keep around here for once?"


	59. People Will Say We're In Love

Four years since the Chantry.

"Have you really been looking for me all this time?" he asked, in his cracked, broken voice. Once he'd had a pleasant tenor, made for laughter and tenderness and words of love, but waking up screaming every night for years at a time can ruin a voice like that.

"Four years, Anders," came the reply. "Four years, three months and sixteen days. It was always just...a matter of time."

"Why, Sebastian," he tried to purr. "People will say we're in love."

Sebastian didn't respond again, only raised the bow and fired.


	60. Explain This To Me

Sebastian had been waiting in Hawke's foyer for nearly half an hour.

"I don't know what could be keeping her, Messere," tutted Bodahn. "I know she was planning to take an excursion with you this morning."

"Not to worry, Bodahn," said Sebastian. "I'm sure she'll be down shortly." The dwarf bustled back into the domestic regions of the mansion.

After several more minutes had passed, Sebastian took the stairs up to Hawke's room. He was just raising his hand to knock when he heard a muffled shriek from within. Reaching for his bow, he burst through the door and then stopped short, aghast.

Isabela was standing on the bed, dressed only in her thigh-high boots; Hawke, dressed in less than that, was lashed to the headboard by her wrists. A jar of honey was upended on the floor, and Hawke's mabari, Jasper, was violently shaking a feather pillow, causing feathers to fly around the room like a blizzard. And to the side of the bed, Fenris, who had leapt up when the door slammed open, dropped back down again as if to conceal himself in the various bits of armor, clothing and weapons which were strewn around the floor.

"Oh," said Hawke, with a decent attempt at nonchalance. "I'm sorry, Sebastian, did we keep you waiting?"

"Explain this to me..." Sebastian said slowly.

A movement caught his eye behind one of the wardrobes. Taking a closer look, he realized Merrill was trying to conceal herself. She was wearing nothing but a frilly hat and was clutching a small rabbit.

"On second thought...don't."


	61. Open Your Eyes

There was a massive explosion, not of sound, but of light. They were all thrown back, and Sten, who had been restraining him, lost his grip, and then he was on the ground and then he was sprinting, no thought in his head except to get to Alim now, right _now._

Zevran skidded to his knees beside the crumpled mage and turned him over. Alim's face was white in the weird light that still flickered all around, even though his robe was drenched with the archdemon's blood. He didn't move.

"Alim," Zevran whispered, stroking the mage's cheek. "Open your eyes." He shook Alim, gently at first, then a bit harder. "Alim! Open your eyes! Amore, please..." He heard himself sob. "Open your eyes."

"Zev," said Alistair brokenly. "I don't think..."

Zevran looked around desperately. They were all there, faces stricken and in general states of injury and disarray, but they were all alive. All except...

"Alim," he said again, nearly choking on the name. And that was when Alim's eyes did open, blue and aware, and he reached weakly for Zevran with an attempt at the impish grin which had gotten him through so many scrapes.

"Thank the Maker!" gasped Wynne from somewhere, and "I don't believe it" from a shocked Alistair and then -

Zevran looked past Alim's shoulder and saw Morrigan, standing in the shadow thrown by the archdemon's corpse. Her golden eyes glittered and a smile of amusement played on her lips.

"Get out, _strega_ ," Zevran spat at her, holding Alim tighter.

The others stared at him in shock, but Morrigan only smiled a little wider before she vanished into the night.


	62. Let Us Leave This Place Where The Smoke Blows Black

Acrid and oily, the smoke rose from the fields and the village itself. Leandra squeezed her eyes shut tightly against the sting, unsure if it was the smoke or the tears she was trying to keep bottled inside.

Somewhere out there, behind that curtain of smoke, was the ruin of the life she and Malcolm had worked so hard to build. Somewhere out there was Malcolm himself, his grave one more of the things she was being forced to leave behind in this blighted land. "As long as we're together, we'll always have a home," he'd told her once, long ago, when it seemed as if they would never find a place to settle down.

She took a deep breath and turned away from Lothering. Ahead of her, they waited - Carver with his fierce intensity, Garrett with his insouciant grin, Bethany with her loving heart. As long as we're together, she reminded herself, we'll always have a home.


	63. Campfire Song

It had been a particularly long trek, and the four of them found themselves in a small wood as night fell. Since Hawke and Merrill were the only two members of the group who had any real camping experience, Hawke went out to try and find a rabbit to supplement the evening's rations for dinner; and Merrill got the campfire going.

Sebastian and Isabela crowded around it like a pair of moths. "I hate camping," grumbled Isabela, warming her hands. "I don't like being outside. I like being inside, where it's warm and there's drinks to be ordered." She slapped at a mosquito. "And I don't like bugs! Or sitting in dirt! It gets in my boots and itches."

"Are there wild animals around here?" asked Sebastian nervously, staring into the lowering darkness. Merrill quirked an eyebrow at him and he blushed. "Sorry, it's just that I've spent most of my life in the city. I'm not used to camping in the woods."

"Well," said Merrill slowly, "if you like, I can teach you a bit of Dalish lore. Usually we sing around the campfire, and it lets any nearby animals know we're there and harmless."

"Singing?" said Isabela doubtfully.

"Oh yes," replied the elf brightly. "The Dalish believe every living creature has its own song, you know; it's just that some are more literal than others."

From somewhere out in the woods, a branch cracked.

"What should we sing?" asked Sebastian hurriedly.

"Well, this is the first song every Dalish child learns," Merrill said, and began to sing softly:

"Let's gather around the campfire,  
And sing our campfire song.  
Our C-A-M-P-F-I-R-E S-O-N-G song!  
And if you don't think that we can sing it faster then you're wrong.  
But it'll help if you just sing along!"

Sebastian and Isabela glanced at each other in confusion. "Kitten, are you quite sure - " Isabela began.

An owl hooted.

"How did that go again?!"

Merrill demonstrated again, then added: "But the trick is, you have to sing louder and faster each time. That lets the forest creatures know that even though we are one with them, we are dominant."

"Dominant," said Sebastian. "Right," said Isabela, and they began another round of the song. By the time they'd gone through it half a dozen times, Sebastian's strong baritone and Isabela's shaky alto were both being belted out at an impressive rate.

A noise at the edge of their clearing caused them Sebastian to whip around while Isabela continued on for a couple of bars. "C-A-M-P-F-"

"What in the name of sweet Andraste's tits are you two caterwauling for?!" demanded Hawke, entering the clearing with a brace of rabbits over one arm and looking appalled and exasperated. "They can probably hear you back in Kirkwall, for pity's sake!"

"Well, Merrill was just teaching us her Dalish campfire song so..." Sebastian and Isabela looked over at Merrill. The little elf was practically doubled over with suppressed laughter.

"Dalish campfire song," repeated Hawke slowly. "Riiiight."

Sebastian and Isabela were both silent for the rest of the night.


	64. Stars

_**I am reaching, but I fall** _

It is supposed to be his triumph.

He has searched and fought for ten years; he has beggared Starkhaven and broken his own body and mind with this singleminded goal. Now on this battlefield - he doesn't even know the name of the town, only that the Templars are waging a fight against a nest of rogue magi - he can see the end. Can literally see the blue fire shooting through Anders' skin, the crackle of flames from his staff, the way he directs the mages.

Yet when the battlefield is silent, and the Templars lie dead and scattered, Sebastian finds himself in the dirt, trying to claw his way forward to the last point he saw the abomination. He doesn't remember being wounded, only knows that half his ribs are crushed and blood is pouring from him at a critical rate. He has minutes left to live - perhaps seconds - and this is not how it's supposed to end; this is not -

_**Vengeance was his, and he gave me back my life** _

The cool blue light of healing envelops him then like a memory; from battles long ago alongside Hawke and the others. The splintered bones are repaired, the bleeding wounds close and the life returns to him. Slowly he sits up.

Anders is squatting next to him.

The years have been far kinder to the blonde apostate than they have to Sebastian - his face has a few more lines, and his eyes are tired, but otherwise he is much the same as he was the last time Sebastian saw him, in Kirkwall.

"Wh- why?" Sebastian croaks. "Why save me? After all the years I've hounded you?"

"I'm a healer, Sebastian," Anders answers quietly. "Beyond anything else. You never understood that."

Anders rises and turns away. "Anders!" calls Sebastian urgently. "You...you can't just leave me like this!"

Looking back, raising a quizzical eyebrow, Anders asks: "Like what? Alive?"

"Yes..."

Anders just looks at him for a long moment, and then disappears into the darkness of the battlefield.

_**And must I now begin to doubt** _

_**Who never doubted all these years?** _

Sebastian slowly kneels, and turns his face to the night sky. Above him wheel the stars, ice-bright and hard as diamonds. "Maker," he whispers, almost a prayer, almost a groan. "Maker, no."

The stars and the Maker are both silent.

_**There is nowhere I can turn** _

_**There is no way to go on.....** _


	65. Red Sky At Night

"Easy there, Hawke," said Varric the third time Hawke stumbled against him. "Not much farther now."

"I should hope not," slurred Hawke. "We've been walking for. For. For. Walking a looong time."

Varric slid one arm around Hawke's waist and tried to brace her, which caused her to tilt rightward over his head at an alarming angle.

"Damn, you're just too tall!" the dwarf huffed.

"You're just right!"

"Thanks, Hawke." Stopping again, he resettled Hawke's arm and got a better grip on her. "You could have stayed at the Hanged Man, you know, instead of insisting on going home."

"Varric, that's so sweet!"

"Not in my bed, of course," he corrected her hastily.

"Awww," Hawke pouted. Letting herself be propelled toward the Hightown stairs, Hawke threw her head back and looked at the sky. "Blight's coming!"

"What?"

"Red sky at night, here comes a blight!"

"I don't think that's how it goes, Hawke."

"Isn't that what Isabela used to say?"

"No, I think it was more...'red sky at night, sailors get in a fight'?"

"That's not it," said Hawke, brow furrowing. Varric puffed as he hauled her past the Merchant's guild and toward her home. "She used to say...used to say..." - Hawke began to sniffle a bit, and Varric groaned - "used to say a LOT of things."

"I know, Hawke."

"Before she left."

"I know."

"Killed the blighted Arishok for her and she just...left!"

"I know, Hawke," said Varric with a sigh as they turned the corner to Hawke's mansion.

"I wish I could remember how that went, though," said Hawke. "Red sky at night...red sky at night..."

A shadow detached itself from the entryway to Hawke's mansion and resolved itself into Isabela, looking exactly as she had three years before. Before Varric could stop her, Hawke had detached herself from him and stumbled up to the pirate, where she stood swaying with a mixed expression of hope and disbelief.

"Red sky at night, sailor's delight," said Isabela with the same old grin, reaching out to stroke Hawke's cheek gently.

"You're...you're back," breathed Hawke.

Then she doubled over and vomited an excessive amount of Hanged Man ale all over Isabela's boots.

"Welcome home, Rivaini," chuckled Varric.


	66. Bit Off More Than You Could Chew

Hawke stirred the substance in his bowl uncertainly. It was a uniform grayish color, and included chunks of what might have been mutton, and other chunks of what might have been turnips. The chunks languished in a greasy, yet somehow nearly gelatinous broth.

A particularly egregious piece of might-be-mutton surfaced in liquid under Hawke's dubious prodding, then mercifully sank back out of sight.

Across the table, Bodahn courageously took a bite of his meal, then grabbed quickly for a mug of water and started gulping it down.

"Not enchantment," said Sandal dolefully, staring into his own bowl.

Orana, who had been watching all of this with increasing anxiety, burst into tears and fled into the kitchen.

Hawke sighed and dropped his spoon. "Bodahn, I think having her take over all the cooking is a bit much for her right now. Do you think you could give her some lessons or something?"

"Of course, messere," said the dwarf. He followed Orana into the kitchen and Hawke could hear him soothing the still-sobbing elf.

Hawke set the bowl on the floor and whistled for Jasper. The big mabari came bounding in, sniffed at the contents, and then whined and backed away. Hawke sighed again.

"Come on, Sandal. I'll treat you to dinner at the Hanged Man."


	67. The Truth

Sarah Hawke sat back against her headboard, lost in thought. The room was quiet and nearly dark, and Isabela was a warm mass slumbering against her, but she couldn't sleep. Absently, she stroked the other woman's hair while she pondered.

"You know he's lying, don't you?" murmured Isabela against Hawke's hip.

Hawke started a little. "Did I wake you?"

"All that thinking you're doing woke me," Isabela replied, and stretched languorously. "You're wondering what Anders is really up to with his dragon droppings and sewer scrapings."

"Not wondering so much..." Hawke admitted, "as suspecting. My father had some interesting books..."

Isabela gazed up at her. "And just what is it you suspect?" she asked.

Hawke smiled slightly, and looked into the fireplace. The firelight did nothing to warm her silvery eyes, but it made them glitter. Isabela shivered a tiny bit.

"I suspect," Hawke said in a soft and dreamy voice, "that a change is going to come."


	68. Tell Me a Better Lie

"Diamonds!" said Hawke enthusiastically. "There's a legend that dragons burn so hot on the inside that they actually create diamonds, and if you dig through the drakestone you can find them."

"Diamonds?" repeated Isabela thoughtfully. "I like diamonds..."

Hawke grinned. Perplexed, Anders started to ask Hawke what was going on, but the warrior had already turned to walk away.

***

"I've never heard of such a relic!" exclaimed Sebastian. "Truly it would be a coup for the Chantry!"

"It's really too bad we have to search the sewers for it," said Hawke, clapping a comradely hand on Sebastian's shoulder, "but if it's for the faith, it's worth it!"

"Absolutely!"

Once again the warrior escaped before Anders could question him.

***

By the time Hawke had secured Fenris for the sewer run by telling him they would be rooting out a nest of slavers, and Aveline for the Bone Pit by suggesting a group of rogue guardsmen might be using it as a smuggling base, Anders was more than perplexed - he was genuinely angry. To compound things, his lover was actively avoiding him; not returning to the mansion on the rare nights Anders was there until after the mage had fallen asleep, and vanishing before he woke. Every time Anders tried to corner him, Hawke would wriggle away with a grin and an excuse, sometimes giving Anders a distracted kiss before hurrying off to attend to some kind of unspecified champion business.

Finally, the day before they were due to leave for the Bone Pit, Anders returned to the mansion at exactly the right time - Hawke was in the library and in regular clothing instead of armor. Motioning for Bodahn to be silent, Anders slipped into the room and closed the door quietly behind himself, leaning against it to block Hawke's only means of egress.

Hawke was swirling a glass of wine but didn't seem very interested in drinking it; he stared into the glass, lost in thought. Anders watched him for a moment, taking advantage of a rare chance - even rarer, of late - to see the man he loved with his guard entirely down, no mask of smiles or glibness or charm with which he usually faced the world.

"Hello love," said Hawke quietly, not looking up. Of course he'd noticed Anders was there. He noticed things. It was one of the qualities Anders had always adored.

"Hello," he replied quietly.

"What's on your mind?"

"You are." Anders took a few steps closer. "You've been avoiding me for days, and you've been telling these ridiculous lies -" he couldn't help the touch of rising anger in his voice. "What is this all about?"

Hawke smiled at him, but it wasn't a very happy smile, and it was entirely at odds with the pain in his eyes.

"Isn't that how we're doing things these days? Instead of being honest, we're just dangling enticements in front of people, offering them something they really, truly want in return for their help? Even if it's, as you say, a 'ridiculous lie'?"

Anders swallowed hard, and found he couldn't look Hawke in the eyes any longer.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Anders?" asked Hawke, in that gentle tone Anders loved to hear and loved even more to inspire. Within him, Justice rumbled and roiled, so intermixed with Anders' own blood and spirit that it felt like being strangled from the inside out.

Anders fumbled for the door latch, and walked away from the mansion as fast as he could. By the time he reached the steps to Lowtown, he was all but running.


	69. Weep

Merrill stroked the gray wisps of hair away from Marethari's face, and wept.

Nearby Aveline and Isabela stood close together, watching anxiously but saying nothing. Eventually both women looked at Hawke; green eyes and brown both expectant and troubled.

Hawke was Merrill's lover; it was his job to comfort her.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way," Merrill sobbed. "If there was a price to be paid, I should have paid it!"

Hawke swallowed hard against the harsh words that bubbled up in his throat. _Yes, you should have_ and _What were you expecting to happen_? and worst of all, _This is all your fault_. All true, and all devastating. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, shout into her face. Make her _see_.

But it was to spare her harsh words like that he'd kept Fenris and Anders away from this outing in the first place, so he couldn't very well start yelling at her now. No matter how angry or disappointed he was.

"Why did this have to happen?" Merrill whispered brokenly, and finally it was Isabela who put a soothing arm around the elf, guided her to her feet and toward the cave's entrance. Hawke stayed where he was, staring at Marethari's body.

"This is my fault," he said tonelessly after a minute or two. "If I hadn't agreed to help her..."

"She made her choices," Aveline replied, gently but somehow implacably. Hawke had almost forgotten she was there. Now she moved forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's never been up to you to make them for her. That's what Marethari tried to do. But at least she still has a chance to make some right ones in the future."

Hawke shook his head slowly. "I don't know, Aveline. I'm not sure what choices there are left for her. And I don't know if I can...if I can be the one that supports her any longer."

Aveline didn't say anything further, but gave Hawke's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze before following the others out of the cave.

Hawke stared at Marethari's body for a long time. He didn't weep.


	70. Whalers On The Moon

The door slammed, and Isabela was left ... with them.

Slowly, she turned to face them.

Two pairs of identical bright green eyes regarded her solemnly. One pair belonged to a boy of no more than five. The other belonged to a girl who was obviously his twin, except where his hair was black, hers was bright red.

Both were dressed in nightclothes and clutching small stuffed animals.

They were, perhaps, the most intimidating sight Isabela had ever seen.

"Well!" she said brightly, pasting a smile on her face. "What would you darlings like to do?"

"Story!" the little girl replied instantly, and climbed onto the settee with an expectant look on her face.

The boy ducked around the end of the couch and hid.

 _Well, at least I'm not the only scared one,_ Isabela thought.

Gingerly, she sat down, keeping a prudent distance between herself and the girl, and racked her brains for something appropriate. The room was comfortable and the fire was keeping things cozy - maybe if she could distract them long enough...

"Um. Once upon a time..." The girl snuggled a bit nearer, and Isabela edged away. "There were pirates - I mean, fishermen. Whalers, actually! Do you know what whales are?"

The little girl shook her head.

"Oh, they're wonderful!" said Isabela enthusiastically, remembering the few times she'd encountered the giants of the sea. "They are the biggest fish you've EVER seen in your life, longer than a boat, even. And these whalers would hunt them! But then one night..." she thought a bit, and in the lull, she noticed that the boy was shyly peeking around the edge of the settee. "They were looking up at the moon, and they saw the biggest, strongest whale of all."

"A moon whale?" asked the girl.

"Exactly right, a moon whale. So they sailed their ship up to the moon to hunt the moon whale."

Isabela found the more she talked, the more relaxed she was, and when the little girl snuggled up again, she didn't move away. Soon, she was bracketed on the other side by the boy. She spun the tale out longer and longer, until she realized that her audience had fallen asleep.

Realizing she was pinned down by the two children and there was no way to get up without waking them, she mentally gave in to the inevitable and scooched down between them, resting her head on the settee's back.

An hour later, when Aveline and Donnic returned from the emergency errand which had taken them out, they were greeted by the sight of the pirate and the two children, cuddled together, fast asleep on the sofa. "I told you they'd be fine," said Donnic with a grin.

Aveline harrumphed, but fondly.


	71. Sleep

_scritch scritch scritch_

Hawke could hear the quill through the slightly-ajar clinic door. In years past Anders would never have been careless enough to leave it open, but Anders was slipping, faster every day.

He stepped inside and followed the sound to the back, where Anders sat hunched over his makeshift desk. The quill was very loud in the silence, and the scratching sound it made reminded Hawke unpleasantly of the times he'd heard the legs of giant spiders scrabbling on stone as they attacked.

"Anders," he said softly, and then a bit more strongly: "Anders!"

Anders jumped, then turned to him. "You startled me," he said, but smiled tiredly. "What time is it?"

"It's late...come home."

Anders looked back down at the parchment. In the guttering candlelight his face looked raddled and exhausted. Hawke shuddered slightly. For a moment he could see what Anders would look like as a very old man.

"I've got more to do here, love," Anders said. "I need to get these arguments down before they slip away from me again."

"You need sleep." Hawke reached out and touched the mage's face.

Anders laughed, almost like a cough. "Don't worry. I'll sleep when I'm dead." The smile he called up was ghastly. He turned his face to drop a brief kiss on the palm of Hawke's suddenly nerveless hand, then sat down at his desk again and took up the quill.

_scritch scritch scritch_


	72. Sick Day

Entering the hovel, Garrett was surprised to see his uncle seated in a chair by the fire, wrapped in a blanket and hunched over a steaming mug of tea.

"Gamlen!" Garrett exclaimed. "Wasn't expecting you here..."

"My house, isn't it?" Gamlen snapped in a hoarse voice. "Why in blazes wouldn't I be here?"

_Because I carefully time my day to avoid you_ , thought Garrett. "Oh, no reason, it's just this time of day you're usually at the..." He stopped as his mother came bustling into the room. "The, er, pub."

Leandra fussed about, checking Gamlen's forehead for fever (he waved her off impatiently) and greeting Garrett with a kiss on the cheek. "He's caught some kind of bug, is all," she informed her son briskly. "He'll be right as rain in a few days."

"What kind of bug?" Garrett asked warily.

"Just something I picked up at...the _pub_ ," said Gamlen, with a meaningful emphasis on the last word. "They said I should stay home until it's cleared up."

"So whatever it is, they don't even want it at the _pub_?"

"That's right."

"What are you two on about?" asked Leandra.

"Nothing!" said both men at the same time. Leandra glared at them.

"Well!" said Garrett briskly. "I'm just going up to the Hanged Man and see what Varric is up to!"

Leandra clucked at him. "Oh, Garrett, that dirty place? You'll end up with the same thing Gamlen has!"

"It's fine, Mother," he said, and leaned in to give her a peck on the cheek. "If I were you I'd try not to touch him," he whispered, before making his escape.


	73. Work Ethic

Hawke's temper is an uncertain thing at the best of times, and the two women have always stalked around each other like a pair of not-quite-friendly cats. They have all the wrong traits in common to ever really be friends; both are blunt, headstrong and determined, but where Aveline sees life in black and white, Hawke spends too much time in the gray area between for Aveline to ever be fully comfortable. So the guard captain doesn't assume that Hawke will fall weeping into her arms, but even so, this outright attack takes her by surprise.

"Where were you?!" Hawke rages. "Why weren't you doing your job?! If you had been, my mother would still be alive!" She continues on, throwing epithets and accusations, in a fury so intense she's all but shedding sparks as she storms back and forth.

For a moment Aveline thinks to respond in kind, but then she catches the faint hitch in Hawke's voice, and the gleam of unshed tears. Leaning back against her desk, Aveline just waits and lets Hawke's storm wash over her. When Hawke finally runs out of ways to blame her, Aveline hands her a handkerchief. And when Hawke tries haltingly to apologize, Aveline shakes her head and says, "I loved her, too."

In the not-quite companionable, not-quite friendly silence that follows, Aveline muses on the duty of a guardswoman, and of a friend. She isn't sure which one she is right now, but if this outpouring is what Hawke needs, Aveline will let her have it.


	74. Ready, Willing and Able

Sebastian had told Hawke he was ready, willing and able to assist her with whatever she needed, but after the first day spent following her around in the company of a grouchy elf and a snarky mage, he still wasn't sure exactly what that was. During the course of the day, they'd seen corners of Kirkwall he'd never imagined, visited every merchant's stall in both Lowtown and Hightown, traipsed through mud in the sewers beneath the city, and shadowed Hawke as she conversed with everyone from the Arishok to the templars at the Gallows.

Now he was nursing a truly repellent mug of ale at a table in the Hanged Man, an establishment he'd heard of but never before visited, while Hawke "popped upstairs for a second to see Varric." Although Sebastian was glad to get off his feet for a few minutes, he was less enamored of his company. Neither Fenris nor Anders had spoken more than two words to him so far, but considering the tones in which they typically addressed each other, Sebastian thought that might be a blessing. Currently, the elf and the mage were playing some kind of card game which seemed to involve slapping cards down on the table in turn while sneering at each other.

At last, Sebastian cleared his throat and said "I have a couple of questions, if I may."

Green eyes and brown eyes turned to him. _Well, at least they seem to agree on one thing_ , Sebastian thought. Too bad it was disliking him.

"I was wondering if you could tell me a bit more about what I might expect in supporting Hawke," he said. "Is this typical? Is this how she spends her days?"

Anders and Fenris traded a glance, then Anders answered. "Well, a couple days per week, yes," he admitted. "Hawke likes to do a bit of groundwork before actually taking on a mission."

"Don't worry," added Fenris. "You'll get plenty of bow practice."

"How should I..." Sebastian asked, trying to think of how to phrase it. "Exactly what will my role be?"

The two looked at each other again, a bit puzzled. "Shoot things," said Anders with a shrug.

"You shoot things, Hawke stabs things, I hit things, and Anders stands in the back whining about mage rights."

"Keeping you _alive_ , you mean," snapped Anders. "Healing and combat magics."

"But," asked Sebastian,"is there anything you can tell me specifically about working with Hawke that I should know?"

"Hmmm...." said Anders. "No, not really."

"No," said Fenris. "Well, bring a big backpack."

"Yes, that's true. I hope you're not squeamish about corpse robbing."

"Hawke picks up _everything_ , so just plan on carrying a bunch of it."

"Also, don't bring up the Deep Roads, her sister, her uncle, or the Blight."

"Or ogres."

"Definitely don't bring up ogres. But be courteous to the Mabari."

"Yes, definitely. Also, half of what she says is a joke, so be prepared to sooth ruffled feathers."

"And if we run into spiders, all bets are off."

"We see a spider and she'll be halfway back to Ferelden before she stops running, and she's likely to stab anyone in the way."

"Spiders?" said Sebastian faintly. "She's scared of spiders?" His head was swimming. Maybe he wasn't as ready for all this as he'd thought.

Anders and Fenris looked at each other again, then back at him.

"You really _do_ have a lot to learn," said the elf.


	75. Silver

The barest glint, so faint he thought he might have imagined it - but there it was again, a single strand of silver mingled with the gold ones he was braiding together. Leaning forward, he examined the rest of his hair in the mirror, combing his fingers through it, looking for more of that silver gleam. There was none, at least not yet; just that one strand. No wrinkles, either; nor cloudiness in the bright golden eyes, but that silver strand told the tale. _Age is inevitable_ , he thought resignedly; _we must accept it gracefully_. The mirror was merciless; it would record his decline as dispassionately as it had recorded his beauty.

Walking out into the bedchamber, he found Theron sitting on the edge of the bed. No silver in that black hair, but Theron's eyes were exhausted from more and more frequent nightmares, and the lines on his face were beginning to look like pain. 

"Zevran," Theron said evenly, "we need to talk about the Calling."

_Inevitable_ , Zevran thought again, and wondered what the mirror would show him when this conversation was over.


	76. Don't Blink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With props to "Firefly."

The rock corridor ended in a cavern, and as soon as Bethany stepped into the larger space she knew she was going to die.

The ogre hadn't seen her yet, but as soon as it turned its head, it would; then it would charge her, grab her in its huge, armored hand; and beat the life out of her, just like Carver. She saw it all clearly in her mind, in a fraction of a second.

Before that could happen, however, a pair of strong arms grabbed her from behind and whisked her into the shadow of a pillar. "Don't move, don't speak, don't even _blink_!" Nathaniel whispered urgently against her ear.

It didn't seem possible that such a meager amount of cover could conceal two people, but as the ogre finally turned, its murky gaze traveled past the hiding place without seeing them. The ogre's eyes swept back again, and still didn't find them. Slowly, the huge creature turned, and began to lumber away.

Nathaniel relaxed his iron grip. "That was close," he said, voice pitched low.

"Shouldn't we..." Bethany asked, shaking, "try to kill it?"

"It's not always about fighting. Sometimes it's about sneaking, staying quiet and invisible, just getting through without attracting attention."

Bethany nodded, her heartbeat finally slowing to something more normal.

That was when Oghren burst out of the tunnel behind them, swinging his broadsword in a circle over his head and screaming "YEEEEE-AAAAWWWWW!!!" at the top of his lungs. Velanna followed, hands already aglow, and started sending fireballs toward the ogre, which whirled with frightening speed to meet the charging dwarf and elf.

"There are," said Nathaniel, as he unlimbered his bow, "other schools of thought."


	77. Do They Celebrate Wintersend In Kirkwall?

Vigil's Keep was decked out for Wintersend from the courtyard to the tower tops. Streamers and garlands fluttered, candles illuminated every corner, music from half a dozen corners filled the air and the smells of the feast were making every mouth water. The general air of merriment was pervasive. Even the normally dour Seneschal Varel was laughing, and rumor had it that Velanna had been seen _dancing_.

"Is it true you're from Kirkwall?" breathed the tipsy and enjoyably buxom young maid who had ensconced herself on Carver's lap as he sat at the table in the main hall. Half in the bag himself, Carver refilled both their wine goblets. "Yes! Well..." he amended, "...not from, exactly. I've lived there. _And_ lived to tell about it."

"Do they celebrate Wintersend in Kirkwall?" the maid asked, wide brown eyes fascinated as one arm slid around his neck.

"Oh, no," Carver replied expansively. "Kirkwall is a terrible, violent place. There's no time for celebrations. Too much killing and...killing." He hiccuped.

"That sounds terrible!" the maid breathed, pressing her breast a bit closer.

"Oh it is, it is. We should all - " _hic_ "-pray for Kirkwall. It's a place of dread and fear."

"Oh no!"

"The only water flowing..." he searched his fuzzy mind for a proper analogy - "is the bitter sting of tears!"

"That's awful!"

"The Wintersend bells that ring there are clanging chimes of _doom_!"

" _No_!"

"The greatest gift they'll get this year is life," he finished sorrowfully.

"That's so sad," said the maid. "It's so wonderful that you escaped from that terrible place." Her face moved closer to his. Her lips, he couldn't help noticing at this distance, were very pink and very, very enticing. He tightened his arm about her waist.

"Better them than you, eh!?" boomed a raucous voice next to Carver's ear. The maid squawked and jumped, spilling wine all over Carver's one good dress tunic. Carver glared at Oghren, who was grinning lasciviously at the maid.

"Oooh, you're from Orzammar?" the maid asked breathlessly. "Do they celebrate Wintersend in Orzammar?"

"Wintersend! Sod Wintersend. Why don't you come along with me and I'll show you how a dwarf celebrates a holiday." He leered and belched, but the maid, totally enamored, slid off of Carver's lap. The last he saw of her, she was disappearing off in the direction of Oghren's ale barrel with her arm locked tightly through the dwarf's and appeared completely enraptured by his story.

"What just happened?" Carver wondered aloud as he sopped up spilled wine.

"Don't even ask," said Nathaniel Howe, who had watched the whole proceeding with a smirk from nearby. "Really, you probably don't want to think about it too much."


	78. You Make Forgetting Look So Easy

Viscount Hawke isn't sure what he'll feel the first time he sees Anders after the Rite. He assumes there will be grief; perhaps a holdover of the anger kindled when the Chantry blew up; certainly guilt at delivering his former lover to the fate he had feared more than death in the name of peace with Starkhaven and the Divine.

But it's none of those things he feels when he first sees the sun brand on Anders' forehead with his own eyes, and looks into the once-loved face now devoid of the warmth, humor and passion which characterized it. Instead, he thinks of the past - an ogre and the sickening crunch of Carver's bones; the knife sliding home in Bethany's heart in the Deep Roads; the stink of a forgotten foundry in Lowtown - all the compromises, sacrifices and losses which brought him to this place.

In that moment, all he feels is envy.


	79. Get Outta Here

"IS there any more to know about you? Seems like it's all right there on the surface," Anders snapped.

Zevran Aranai cocked an eyebrow at him. "Oh, like that, is it?" he said with a smirk.

Anders seethed and hoped the "get outta here" message was plain on his face. It must have been, because the assassin made a quick farewell and disappeared back into canyons as if he'd never flashed through their lives.

As soon as he could, Anders pulled Hawke aside. "What was that all about?!" he hissed.

"What?" Hawke asked dreamily. "Regular day's work, I thought - killing, looting -."

"Not that! The flirting!"

"Yes, that part was nice."

"Really? You're not even going to deny it?"

"It's not like I was going to do anything, you know," Hawke replied, eyes twinkling. "Don't you trust me?"

Anders sputtered a bit longer, then relented. "Of course I do, it's just...did you have to flirt so much?"

"Yes," said Hawke, with absolute conviction.

"You did."

"Yes."

"Really."

"Yes. I really, really did."

Hawke grinned again and dropped Anders a wink before starting back toward the city. By the time he caught up, Anders had thought of seventeen unique ways in which he hoped a certain elven assassin would die.


	80. Throwing Fireballs

Hawke hit the floor on his back and skidded across it, and oddly his thought was _dear Maker, I don't want to know what's on this floor_. The sounds of the fight seemed to fade out into a dull, yet ringing roar that filled his head; his vision swam and the breath was completely knocked out of his lungs. Then, filling his vision, came Danarius; advancing on him slowly with a look of such contempt it nearly seared his skin. 

Or maybe that was actual flames, he wasn't quite sure.

Despite his body feeling like a puppet with the strings cut he struggled to his elbows, not wanting to face this man on his back but unable to get any further. Off to one side, Fenris was trying to get to his feet, bleeding from half a dozen cuts sustained when Danarius had essentially blown up the middle of the tavern. Off to the other Varric was crumpled on the floor with blood pooling under his head, and he didn't see Aveline at all, which couldn't be a good sign. Against the walls a small group of Danarius's entourage cowered and shrieked in fear. Wounds were appearing on them, cuts running up their arms, with no apparent source; then he realized, sickeningly, that Danarius was causing them with magic, drawing the blood he needed to power his magic. A red mist seemed to rise from the injured slaves and then start to coalesce around the magister, and what was worse, Hawke saw that the same mist was coming from the wounds of his companions.

"You Ferelden hedge wizards think you have power," sneered Danarius. "You think throwing fireballs around is magic. You know nothing of magic." His fingers started to glow with an ugly red light as he loomed over Hawke. "I have trained in the Imperium since the day I was born, known the secrets of blood magic honed through a thousand years of practice and study. What makes you think you can pit your skill against mine?"

At last - at last - Hawke managed to get a breath into his lungs, and the world snapped back into focus. He surged to his feet, the sudden movement startling the magister, who stopped short.

Hawke drew another deep breath, and as he let it out, he flung both arms wide and released a surge - a massive blue-tinged explosion - of pure healing energy. He had never had the delicacy Anders did with this kind of magic, so he seldom tried it, but that didn't mean he couldn't access it, and now hardly seemed like the time for delicacy. The surge was so strong it sent Danarius staggering back a few steps, knocked Fenris down again and slammed the slaves against the wall, but when it had faded, every bloodied wound in the room was closed, and the red cloud around Danarius vanished.

Cut off from his primary source, the mage reached for other magics, flinging electricity and spirit bolts wildly, but Hawke deflected them easily as he stepped forward. He swept his arms out again, and Danarius screamed as he was caught in the grip of pure force and lifted off the ground.

Panting, Hawke grinned at the struggling magister and said "Well, I may not have the advantage of all the training the Tevinter Imperium could offer, but I did have the advantage of being trained by one bad-assed motherfucker. And he taught me -" Hawke slammed Danarius into the ceiling "-that blood magic -" he slammed Danarius into the floor "- is for weaklings." He flung the mage off in the opposite direction where he crashed into the wall and slid down it, mouth opening and closing like a fish's.

"All yours, Fenris," he said, and turned away.


	81. Gamlen's Youth

The sound of his mother’s weeping and his father’s broken murmurs of comfort tore at his heart. He paced anxiously back and forth on the landing, occasionally gripping the railing and staring into the room below; he tried to gather his courage to enter the bedroom behind him, the bedroom from which emanated those sounds of grief. Every time he approached the door, though, his courage failed him and he turned away.

After Maker knows how many repetitions of this he took a deep breath, his hand shaking, and pushed the door open. The sight was even worse than the sounds. His mother rocked back and forth on the bed, his father knelt in front of her clutching her hands, his face imploring; and crumpled on the floor was the letter which his sister had left behind, the instrument with which she had broken their parents’ hearts.

“M-mother?” he said, in a near whisper. “Father? I’m … I’m here for…for whatever you need…”

The face his mother turned on him was so contorted with grief and rage that he flinched. “GET OUT!” she screamed at him. “I don’t want YOU! I want my daughter!”

His own tears began to fall as his father crossed the room in three quick strides and took him by the elbow, propelling him back onto the landing. The door slammed behind him.

After a moment he straightened up and took a deep breath, dashing the tears from his face. He was the only child now, and he would be strong for his parents, step into the place his sister had so casually abandoned, and he would make them see him. He would.

The tears threatened to surface again as he trudged toward his bedroom.

He would make them see him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has the dubious distinction of being the first drabble I ever wrote.


	82. Fatal Wound

"It was good to be happy...for a time," Anders says softly, almost to himself.

Hawke slides the knife into his back so easily that for a moment she wonders if she's actually done it, but then he slips off the crate and to the ground. The blade was true, the wound fatal.

She wonders how long it will take her to die from it.


	83. No Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crackity crack crack.

_This is the moment. What are you waiting for?_

"I...just don't know if this is the way. Perhaps if we were to go to Elthina instead -"

_Anders, there can be no compromise! Finish setting the explosives, and we will leave this place. I do not wish to stay in the house of the Maker any longer than necessary._

"I...okay. Just let me -"

**JUSTICE.**

"What was that?!"

**JUSTICE! DID YOU THINK I WOULDN'T SEE YOU DOWN THERE?**

_M-Maker? Is that you?_

**OF COURSE IT'S ME, ARE YOU DAFT?**

"Holy Ma- Andr- um, cats!! What's going on here?!"

_This isn't what it looks like!_

**IT LOOKS LIKE YOU AND THAT ANDERS BOY ARE TRYING TO BLOW UP THE CHANTRY!**

_Errr..._

"Ummm..."

**DIDN'T I TELL YOU TO STAY IN THE FADE?!**

_Yes, but -_

**AND YET HERE I FIND YOU DOWN IN THEDAS! I TURN MY BACK FOR A FEW MILLENNIA AND YOU COMPLETELY DEFY ME!**

_But this is important! The mages -_

**I TOLD YOU NOT TO CONSORT WITH THOSE MAGES, THEY ARE A BAD INFLUENCE! YOU THERE, MAGE! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!**

"I'm averting my eyes!"

**WELL, STOP IT! YOU TWO CLEAN UP THAT MESS AND GET HOME RIGHT NOW.**

_But Maker -_

**DON'T YOU 'BUT MAKER' ME! YOU'D JUST BETTER HOPE I DON'T DECIDE TO TELL ANDRASTE ABOUT THIS.**

_She's not my real mother!_

**DON'T YOU SPEAK TO ME IN THAT TONE OF VOICE! YOU ARE NOT LEAVING THE FADE AGAIN FOR A THOUSAND YEARS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?! NOW MARCH!**

_Yes, Maker._

**AND AS FOR YOU, ANDERS...**

"S-ser?"

**YOU GET BACK TO YOUR CLINIC AND YOU THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'VE DONE. THEN YOU GO APOLOGIZE TO HAWKE.**

"Yes, Maker..."

**GO ON NOW. MY PEACE BE WITH YOU. AND LATER WE'LL HAVE A DISCUSSION ABOUT THE MAGE PROBLEM.**

"Yes, Maker!"

**NOW THEN. OH YES! SEBASTIAN! WE NEED HAVE A WORD ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE GETTING UP TO IN THE CONFESSION BOOTH WHEN YOU THINK NO ONE IS AROUND!**


	84. Nooooooooo!

"Nooooooo!" cried Sebastian, falling to his knees. "Maker, noooooo!"

"Cut!" shouted Hawke. Sebastian got up and dusted off his knees as Hawke hurried over, waving a script.

"Look, Seb," snapped Hawke, "if you're going to keep overacting like this, we're never going to this play ready for Satinalia."


	85. Message for you, sir!

"Message for you, sir!" piped a voice next to the Viscount's elbow.

Pulled out of his thoughts, Hawke glanced down and found a parchment being shoved into his hands. The elven lad who delivered it was off like a shot, exiting the council chamber so quickly he might never have been there.

"If I might continue - " said the head of the Dwarven Merchant's guild acidly. Hawke tried to recall what the dwarf had been talking about. The room was filled with representatives of all the most important factions in Kirkwall, and they all had grievances to air and issues of "utmost importance" to discuss. The wrangling felt like it had been going on forever, though it wasn't even midmorning.

"Of course, of course, go on" said Hawke, unfolding the parchment and stealing a glance. The contents made him forget the council chamber entirely.

_Good morning, lover;_

_It's a pity you left before I woke this morning. I had such plans! First, I was going to start stroking you very gently, and nibble on your ear..._

Hawke felt Seneschal Bran nudge him lightly to get his attention back on the matter at hand. Hastily folding the parchment, he did his best to concentrate on the dwarf, who was now engaged in an argument with the Quartermaster over some kind of tariff.

A quarter of an hour later, the elven lad was back. "Message for you, sir!" Another parchment. Hawke unfolded it quickly and peeked.

_Hello again, lover;_

_I see you're still tied up in your meeting. If we were in the bedroom right now, I might tie you up in a different way. First..._

Hawke read through the rest quickly, his heart pounding, before folding the parchment away with the first one.

"Are you well, Viscount?" asked Bran. "You look a little...flushed." As usual, Hawke couldn't quite tell if Bran was being sarcastic, so he smiled a wan smile and tried to focus on the meeting again.

Half an hour later, "Message for you, sir!" This time Hawke had been hoping for it, and he snatched the parchment and had it open before the boy had even left the room.

_Hello, lover..._

_Have you ever thought about all the..._ interesting _...items in your office?_

Hawke stood quickly, thankful for his long coat. The faces around the table stared at him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid a matter has come up that I must tend to immediately. Seneschal, would you please take over?"

"But -" started Bran, but Hawke was already out the door.

He was inside his office within a minute, slamming the door behind him. Fenris, lounging elegantly on the sofa, gave him a half smile. "I see you got my messages," the elf said in his low rumble.

"I knew -" said Hawke, pulling the elf to his feet and kissing him soundly, " - that teaching you to write was a brilliant idea."


	86. Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a kmeme prompt looking for hurt/comfort after "All that Remains."

The questions were stupid, and Hawke gave the same answer each time.

"Are you all right, Messere?" "Thank you, Bodahn, I'm fine."

"Doing okay there, Hawke?" "Just fine, Varric."

"How are you holding up? Are you - " " _Fine,_ Aveline."

Fenris griped silently to himself every time he heard a variation on the question and Hawke's increasingly irascible answers. It was obvious Hawke wasn't fine, and nobody expected him to be, but they asked anyway. Fenris found himself more and more irritated on Hawke's behalf, but held his tongue. At least one of Hawke's friends would refrain from asking stupid questions, he vowed to himself. What Hawke really needed, he decided, was practicality. Hawke wasn't the sort of man who accepted sympathy readily nor was he the type to sob on another's shoulder - qualities Fenris appreciated, since he shared them.

So Fenris quietly and simply became Hawke's right hand as Hawke coolly directed Leandra's funeral arrangements. When Hawke snapped that flowers weren't Leandra's favorite color, Fenris disposed of them and got the correct ones. When Hawke mentioned that the mix of Hightown nobility and Ferelden refugees were unlikely to mingle well at the funeral, Fenris quietly let it be known that they would, or answer to him. When the funeral was over and the last guest had left, Fenris harried Bodahn, Orana and Sandal until the entire mansion was put back to rights, everything in its place, neat as a pin.

If anyone asked how Hawke was doing, Fenris reported that Hawke was fine.

At last, near midnight, Fenris found himself alone in the mansion's main room, nothing left to plan or arrange. Although he knew it would be rude to leave for home without saying goodbye, he hesitated before climbing the stairs. It was a little too easy to remember rushing and stumbling up them while he and Hawke pawed at each other's clothes, so eager - He squashed that line of thinking before it could get any further. Not the time, he reminded himself.

Eventually, though, he mounted the stairs and knocked softly on the door of Hawke's room.

"Come in."

Fenris pushed open the door and entered to find Hawke sitting on the floor next to his bed, the firelight flickering on his features. With a pang, he noticed how tired Hawke looked.

Hawke was slowly turning over a pile of sketches and drawings that sat on the floor in front of him. As Fenris drew up next to him, he saw that they were pictures of the Hawke family - Hawke himself, Leandra, a dark haired young man he knew must be Carver, an older man he guessed to be Malcolm. He was struck by the talent displayed in the drawings...they were a vivid window into what the Hawke family must have been like in better times.

"Did you do these?" he asked. "They're lovely."

"No...Bethany did them. Most of them from memory, in fact; the first year we were here. Before the Deep Roads."

Fenris winced a little at that, then settled himself next to Hawke, and watched as the other man slowly turned over the pages; then, reaching the end of the stack, turned it back up again. The drawing left on top was of Leandra, looking much as Fenris had known her, but with a smile he suspected she had reserved only for her children. It made his heart ache to look at it.

A droplet splashed onto Leandra's cheek, and Fenris looked up at Hawke, startled. Hawke's expression hadn't changed; it was still the calm, almost glacial mask he'd worn since he had stood up from his mother's still body in that terrible pit beneath Lowtown, but as Fenris watched, another tear began to slide down Hawke's cheek.

"Hawke, are you all right?" he asked, and instantly could have bitten his tongue out.

Hawke met Fenris's eyes for the first time since he'd sat down, and now, the mask started to crack.

"I'm fine," he choked, and then the mask crumpled entirely, leaving the face of a lost and broken son in its place.

Fenris gathered Hawke to him. Hawke's body hitched with silent sobs, and Fenris couldn't think of a single practical thing to do.

"Shh," he whispered, closing his own eyes against the sting of tears. "Shh. It's all right. I love you. I love you."


	87. Nugs and Hankies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a kmeme prompt looking for some fluff for F!Aeducan after she encounters Gorim in Denerim, with an unlikely companion.

She wasn't going to cry, damn it.

"I just feel so stupid," she said again. "On the one hand, I never really thought ahead to what kind of future I envisioned for us...but then again, after a while I just assumed that whatever the future was, it would be the two of us."

Angrily, she brushed at her eyes. _No sodding tears, Sereda_! she scolded herself harshly.

"I knew that being a Warden meant that future was closed off forever," she continued, glancing at her listener. "It's just that, when I saw him in Denerim...I wanted a chance to say goodbye. But he already had. He moved on so quickly."

She cast a glance around the camp. Morrigan was keeping to herself, as usual; Leliana was fletching arrows, and Alistair was involved in some kind of stilted looking conversation with Sten. She thought they were good souls, even the witch, and she was glad they were at her back...but they weren't her people, and upon returning to the camp from her unexpected reunion with Gorim, she'd retreated to the one place in the camp that felt even the tiniest bit like home.

Nevertheless, she was aware she was probably outstaying her welcome.

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "I didn't mean to ramble on about all this to you, it's certainly not what you signed up for."

Bodahn's kind blue eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Now now, my girl, none of that!" he said. "If you need to ramble you go right on ahead. And if you need to cry a little, I'll just loan you this - " he produced a handkerchief out of seemingly nowhere - "and just look over there for a second."

"Thank you, Bodahn," she sniffled.

"No need to thank me, my girl. But you listen," and here he took her gently but firmly by the shoulders. "You just go ahead and let it out if you need to tonight, but then you go get some rest, and in the morning, why, things will look a bit better. 'A lot of nugs in Dusttown,' as my ma used to say."

Sereda laughed for the first time all day, and before she went to her tent to take the kindly dwarf's advice, she threw her arms around him and gave him a hug.

"Now then, my girl," he said, nonplussed, and patted her on the back. "Off you go."


	88. For the good of all of us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All dialogue belongs to Joss Whedon and the writers of BTVS. :P

"He goes."

Anders closed his eyes, waiting for the knife to plunge into his back. Even now, he couldn't raise a hand against Hawke. At least, this would all finally be over. Maker, let it be over.

Around them, Kirkwall burned and screamed.

The blade didn't come. He heard her sheathe it and opened his eyes again, watering from the smoke and the fire.

"If you and Justice ever, ever come near me and mine again - "

Against all odds, a spark of hope.

"We won't," he whispered. "I swear."

Behind him, Hawke's footsteps faded away, heading toward whatever fate awaited her. He laughed, brokenly. "Guess it's just you and me again, old friend," he said.

A shadow moved in front of him. Varric; unexpected pity in his expression. "Can you move?" the dwarf asked.

Anders nodded jerkily. "Give me a minute," he said, and laughed again. There was no humor in it. "She could have killed me," he mused.

"No, she couldn't," Varric disagreed sadly. He unlimbered Bianca, rubbing lightly at her surface, making her shine. "And sooner or later, Justice will re-emerge, and make Hawke pay for that mercy. And all of Thedas with her."

Anders was nearly mesmerized by the dwarf's blunt fingers as they brushed away ash, made sure the loaded bolt was secured.

"Hawke even knows that," Varric continued, "and still she couldn't take the life of a friend." He looked at Anders finally, and the sorrow in his brown eyes was nearly unbearable.

"She's the Champion, you see," he said, not unkindly. "She's not like us."

Varric raised Bianca then, aimed her at Anders' heart, and for the first time since Amaranthine, the mage felt a twinge of pure gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I couldn't help it. I've been mashing up those scenes in my head for years.)


	89. Justice

Mayor - _former_ Mayor Dedrick was whining and justifying his way through a bumbling defense of his actions during the Blight, but all Brynne Trevelyan could hear was the remembered lapping and dripping of water against long-rotted wood. 

"Shut up," he said, cutting off the mayor's pleas.

This atypical rudeness from the normally sweet tempered Inquisitor caused Cullen to quirk an eyebrow and a few whispering nobles to straighten up and pay attention, but it was what he said next that truly shocked the onlookers.

"Take him back to Crestwood and drown him in the lake," Brynne ordered, in the same tone he used to soothe spats between his advisors - even and reasonable, but inviting no argument. He left the throne and strode off through the door to his quarters, half-slamming it behind him to silence the shocked exclamations now resonating in the Great Hall.

Maker willing, before long the sound of dripping water in his memory would be silenced as well.


	90. Sometimes Iron Bull hated sand

It wasn't that it was itchy when it got into his boots or trousers (it was) or that it obscured his already limited vision when it blew in his face (it did). It was primarily that it hid the Inquisitor so effectively. 

Lavellan's normal tricks of stealth and vanishing seemed to be bolstered by the sand's coverage and Iron Bull found himself irrationally blaming the landscape for swallowing the elf every second time he turned around. He refused to admit that his heart pumped faster every time until the Inquisitor popped back into view, usually grinning madly and only occasionally covered in his own blood.

"Who can keep up with that?" he raged at Krem in camp. "He flits around like some kind of - have you seen those insects that run around on top of water?" Krem shook his head but Bull wasn't really paying attention, lost in his own tirade. "First he's there, then he's not, and if I can't see him how am I supposed to cover him?"

"Doesn't seem like he needs so much covering," Krem said laconically. 

"Yes. He. Does," Bull bit off. "One hit from a greatsword and we'll have two very short lived Inquisitors. If I'm not there -"

"You don't get worried about losing Cole in the sand and he does the same thing," Krem pointed out.

"I don't _care_ about Cole!" Bull snapped, and then glowered at Krem's smirk.

Two days later and the attack on Adamant Fortress at least got them out of deep sands and onto some rock. Iron Bull led the Chargers as rearguard to the Inquisitor's group, cleaning up the havoc left behind and trying to round up confused Wardens who were no longer sure whether to fight or surrender. He still couldn't keep his one eye on the Inquisitor, but he took some small comfort that the elf was at least less likely to vanish from the fortress entirely.


	91. ask the ghosts if honor matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know with this one.

Hawke didn't need to go to Weisshaupt. For one thing, a Warden would be a more appropriate messenger; for another, any relevant news about Adamant, Clarel's Tevinter dealings, and Loghain's presumed death would probably beat her there anyway.

But the trip satisfied the itch to be _away_ which had clawed at her since leaving Kirkwall. That itch had kept her on the move for a long time and caused her to avoid anything that might tie her down - this time, away from the unasked questions in Varric's worried eyes; away from an invitation to the Inquisition which hadn't quite been offered. She set her back to Adamant Fortress the day it fell, and rode until she was exhausted enough to sleep without dreaming. 

A few days found her out of the desert and well on her way to the north, human habitations few and far between. There were plenty of humans, however; it was just that most of them were dead. Too far to the west to be Blight victims and too far to the north to be casualties of the Orlesian civil war...most likely, she thought, after picking through the tenth pile of rotted fabric and bones for loose valuables, there were demons prowling the lands here as well as closer to the Breach. Or possibly it was just the human knack for killing each other.

She wondered what they got out of it, the demons. Why were human emotions - anger, jealousy, desire - of such value? Even the positive seeming spirits clung to humanity wherever they managed to gain a hold, and if they couldn't co-exist, they destroyed. They fought to protect or care for humans even at the cost of destroying them.

Cole would be interesting to watch, she thought on the afternoon of the fifth day, as she skirted around the edge of the fields of an actual, working, populated farm. How soon until his desire to "help" turned rotten? If it didn't, Cole would be the one exception among the spirits Hawke had encountered whose best intentions didn't turn sour.

 _Maybe it's just us_ , she thought, pulling up the horse near where the farmer, swearing in a language she didn't recognize, was soundly beating a boy of about 15 years for some infraction or other. The boy's sobs were beginning to turn to screams as the beating continued, and Hawke thoughtfully fitted an arrow to her bow. Maybe humans simply weren't fit to withstand the sheer power of concepts they struggled with even in day to day life. Certainly Anders - brilliant and good - was no match for Justice. There was no reason to expect the average peasant to fare better.

 _Anders was right about one thing, anyway_ , she mused. The farmer was shouting at her now, gesturing with one arm for her to move on, while with the other he kept the weeping, bleeding boy from escaping. Hawke raised the bow. _Justice is righteous_. She fired. _Justice is hard_. The arrow took the farmer straight through his right eye and protruded from the back of his skull. _Maybe humans just aren't equipped to withstand that level of...of_ purity.

As Hawke reattached the bow to her saddle the boy scrambled away from the farmer's body, staring between it and her in horror, then turned and ran; stumbled, fell, ran again. Hawke gave the horse a brisk kick and continued on to the north. Deep inside one of her packs, a few flecks of old blood still clung to a knife wrapped in a piece of red cloth.


End file.
